Maklakov asked without turning his gaze from the window: "Did the girl cry?" "No. But she didn't exactly rejoice. You know it's always unpleasant to me to take girls, because in the first place I have a daughter myself." "What are you waiting for, Maklakov?" demanded Sasha testily. "Until he gets through eating his dinner. I have time." "Say, you, chew faster!" Sasha bawled at Klimkov. "Yes, yes, hurry," Piotr observed drily. As he ate his dinner, Klimkov listened to the talk attentively, and observed the people while he himself remained unnoticed. He noted with satisfaction that all of them except Sasha did not seem bad, not worse or more horrible than others. He was seized with a desire to ingratiate himself with them, make himself useful to them. He put down the knife and fork, and quickly wiped his lips with the soiled napkin. "I am done." The door was flung open, and a loose-limbed fellow, his dress in disorder, his body bent and stooping, darted into the room, and hissed: "Ssh! Ssh!" He thrust his head into the corridor, listened, then carefully closed the door. "Doesn't it lock? Where is the key?" He looked around, and drew a deep breath. "Thank God!" he exclaimed. "Eh, you dunce," sneered Sasha. "Well, what is it? Do they want to lick you again?" The man ran up to him. Panting and wiping the sweat from his face, he began, to mutter in a low voice: "They did, of course. They wanted to kill me with a hammer. Two followed me from the prison. I was there on business. As I walked out, they were standing at the gate, two of them, and one of them had a hammer in his pocket." "Maybe it was a revolver," suggested Solovyov stretching his neck. "A hammer." "Did you see it?" inquired Sasha sarcastically. "Ah, don't I know? They agreed to do me up with a hammer, without making any noise. One--" He adjusted his necktie, buttoned his coat, searched for something in his pockets, and smoothed his curly head, which was covered with sweat. His hands incessantly flashed about his body; they seemed ready to break off any moment. His bony grey face was dank with perspiration, his dark eyes rolled from side to side, now screwed up, now opened wide. Suddenly they became fixed. With unfeigned horror depicted in them they rested upon Yevsey's face, as the man backed to the door. "Who's that? Who's that?" he demanded hoarsely. Maklakov went up to him, and took his hand. "Calm yourself, Yelizar. He's one of our own, a new one." "Do you know him?" "Jackass!" came Sasha's exasperated voice. "You ought to see a physician." "Have you ever been pushed under a trolley car? Not yet? Then wait before you call names." "Just look, Maklakov," began Sasha, but the man continued in extreme excitement: