A mist of envy enveloped the spies, who sank in dreams of revelries, of big stakes, and costly women. Melnikov was more interested than the others in the course of the war. Often he asked Maklakov, who read the newspapers carefully: "Are they still licking us?" "They are." "But what's the cause?" Melnikov exclaimed in perplexity, rolling his eyes. "Aren't there people enough, or what?" "Not enough sense," Maklakov retorted drily. "The workingmen are dissatisfied. They do not understand. They say the generals have been bribed." "That's certainly true," Krasavin broke in. "None of them are Russians,"--he uttered an ugly oath--"what's our blood to them?" "Blood is cheap," said Solovyov, and smiled strangely. As a rule the spies spoke of the war unwillingly, as if constrained in one another's presence, and afraid of uttering some dangerous word. On the day of a defeat they all drank more whiskey than usual, and having gotten drunk quarreled over trifles. On such days Yevsey trying to avoid possible brawls made his escape unnoticed to his empty room, and there thought about the life of the spies. All of them--and there were many, their numbers constantly increasing--all of them seemed unhappy. They were all solitary, and he pitied them with his colorless pity. Nevertheless he liked to be among them and listen to their talk. At the meetings Sasha boiled over and swore: "Monstrosities! You understand nothing. You can't understand the significance of the business. Monstrosities!" In answer some smiled deprecatingly, others maintained sullen silence. "For forty rubles a month you can't be expected to understand very much," one would sometimes mutter. "You ought to be wiped off the face of the earth," shrieked Sasha. Klimkov began to dislike Sasha more and more, strengthened in his ill-will by the fact that nobody else cared for the diseased man. Many of the spies were actually sick from the constant dread of attacks and death. Fear drove some, as it had Yelizar Titov, into an insane asylum. "I was playing in the club yesterday," said Piotr, in a disconcerted tone, "when I felt something pressing on the nape of my neck and a cold shiver running up and down my back-bone. I looked around. There in the corner stood a tall man looking at me as if he were measuring me inch by inch. I could not play. I rose from the table, and I saw him move. I backed out, and ran down the stairs into the yard and out into the street. I took a cab, sat in it sidewise, and looked back. Suddenly the man appeared from somewhere in front of me, and crossed the street under the horse's very nose. Maybe it wasn't he. But in such a case you can't think. How I yelled! He stopped, and I jumped out of the cab, and off I went at a gallop, the cabman after me. Well, how I did run, the devil take it!"