Deniska set down his valise on the platform and pulled the little books out of his pocket. Tikhon Ilitch took them and examined them attentively. There was the song-book “Marusya,” “The Woman Debauchee,” “An Innocent Young Girl in the Clutches of Violence,” “Congratulatory Verses to Parents, Teachers, and Benefactors,” “The Rôle--” At this point Tikhon Ilitch faltered, but Deniska, who was watching closely, briskly and modestly prompted him: “The Rôle of the Proletariat in Russia.” Tikhon Ilitch shook his head. “Here’s something new! Not a mouthful of food, but you buy yourself a valise and nasty little books. Truly, ’tis not for nothing that folks call you an agitator. They say you are constantly reviling the Tsar! Look out, brother!” “Well, ’tis not so costly as buying an estate,” replied Deniska, with a melancholy grin. “They are good little books. And I haven’t touched the Tsar. They tell lies about me as if I were dead and couldn’t defend myself. But I never had any such thing in my thoughts. Am I a lunatic?” The door-pulley creaked, and the station watchman made his appearance--a discharged soldier, grey-haired, afflicted with a hoarse, whistling asthma--also the restaurant keeper, a fat man with puffy eyes and greasy hair. “Step aside, Messrs. Merchants, let me get the samovar.” Deniska stepped aside and again grasped the handle of his valise. “You stole that somewhere, I suppose?” asked Tikhon Ilitch, nodding towards the valise, and thinking of the business upon which he had come to the station. Deniska bent his head but made no reply. “And it’s empty, of course?” Deniska broke into a laugh. “Yes, it’s empty.” “Were you turned out of your place?” “I left of my own accord.” Tikhon Ilitch heaved a sigh. “The living image of his father!” said he. “That one was always exactly like that: Pitch him out of a place by the scruff of his neck, and he’d tell you--‘I left of my own accord.’” “May I drop dead right before your eyes if I’m lying.” “Well, all right, all right. Have you been at home?” “Yes, two weeks.” “Is your father out of work again?” “Yes, he is out of work naow.” “Naow!” Tikhon Ilitch mimicked him. “A wooden-headed village! And a revolutionary to boot! You’re trying to play the wolf, but your dog’s tail betrays you.” “I rather think you come from the same litter,” Deniska said to himself, with a faint grin, keeping his head down. “That means, the Grey Man is sitting at home smoking?” “He’s a worthless fellow!” said Deniska with conviction. Tikhon Ilitch rapped him on the head with his knuckles. “You might, at least, not exhibit your stupidity! Who speaks of his father like that?” “He ought to be called an old dog, not a daddy,” replied Deniska calmly. “If he’s a father--then let him provide food. But he has fed me heartily, hasn’t he?”