All the clerks, young and old, had something in common, a certain seedy and worn appearance. They were all equally dejected, but they easily grew excited and shouted, gesticulating and showing their teeth. There were many elderly and bald-headed men among them, of whom several had red hair and two grey hair. Of the two, one was a tall man who wore his hair long and had a large mustache, resembling a priest, whose beard has been shaved off. The other was a red-faced man with a huge beard and a bare skull. It was the last who had put Yevsey into a corner, set a book before him, and, tapping his finger upon it, had told him to copy certain parts of it. Now an elderly woman all in black stood before this old man, and drawled in a plaintive tone: "Little father, gracious sir." "You disturb me in my work," shouted the old man without looking at her. And at the door sitting upon a bench a little thin young girl in a pink dress was sobbing and wiping her face with her white apron. "I am not guilty." "Who is whining there?" asked a sharp voice. The outsiders who came in did nothing but complain, make requests, and justify themselves. They spoke while standing, humbly and tearfully. The officials, on the other hand, remained seated and shouted at them, now angrily, now in ridicule, and now wearily. Paper rustled, and pens squeaked, and all this noise was penetrated by the steady weeping of the girl. "Aleksey," the man with the grey beard called aloud, "take this woman away from here." His eyes were arrested by the sight of Klimkov. He walked up to him hastily, and asked gruffly, in astonishment, "What's the matter with you? Why aren't you writing?" Yevsey dropped his head, and was silent. "Hmm, another fool given a job," said the old man shrugging his shoulders. "Hey, Zarubin!" he shouted as he walked away. A dry thin boy with a low forehead and restless eyes and black curls on a small head sat down beside Yevsey. "What's the trouble?" he asked, nudging Yevsey's side with his elbow. "I don't understand what to do," explained Klimkov in a frightened tone. From somewhere within the youngster in the region of his stomach came a hollow, broken sound, "Ugh!" "I'll teach you," he said in a low voice, as if communicating some important secret. "I'll teach you, and you'll give me half a ruble. Got half a ruble?" "No." "When you get your pay? All right?" "All right." The boy seized the paper, and in the same mysterious tone continued: "You see? The first names and the family names are marked in the book with red dots. Well, you must copy them on this paper. When you are done, call me, and I'll see whether you haven't put down a pack of lies. My name is Yakov Zarubin."