One day in a busy street Ilya quite unexpectedly met Pashka Gratschev. The smith's son tramped along the pavement with the assured stride of one free of all care, his hands in the pockets of his torn trousers, wearing a blue blouse, also torn and dirty, which was much too big for him. The heels of his big, well-worn boots clumped on the pavement at every step. His cap with a broken peak rested jauntily over his left ear, leaving half of his close-cropped head exposed to the rays of the summer sun. Face and neck alike were covered with thick greasy black dirt. He recognised Ilya from a distance, and nodded to him in a friendly way, without hastening his easy pace. "Good luck," said Ilya. "Fancy meeting you!" Pashka took his hand, pressed it and laughed. His teeth and eyes shone bright and dear for a moment under his black mask. "How goes it?" asked Ilya. "It goes as it can. When there's anything to bite at, I bite, and when there's nothing I whine and lie curled up. Ha! ha! I'm jolly glad to meet you anyhow!" "Why do you never come to see us?" asked Ilya, smiling. It was pleasant to him to see an old comrade glad to meet him in spite of his dirty face. He looked at Pashka's worn boots and then at his own new, shining pair that had cost nine roubles, and smiled complacently. "How should I know where you live?" said Pashka. "With Filimonov, just the same." "Oh! Jashka said you were in some fish shop or other." Ilya related with pride his experiences in the house of Strogany, and how now he was keeping himself. "That's the way," cried Gratschev approvingly, "they turned me out of the printing works just the same way, for insolence. Then I was with a painter, mixed the colours and that sort of thing, till one day I sat down on a fresh-painted signboard, and then of course there was a row, they all went for me, master and mistress, and pupils, till their arms were tired out and then sent me to the devil. Now I'm with a well-sinker, six roubles a month. I've just had dinner and I'm going back to work." "You don't seem in a hurry with your job." "Oh! devil take it! Whoever knows what work is doesn't get excited over it. I must come and look you up some time." "Yes! do come." "Do you still read books?" "Rather. And you?" "Yes, when I can." "And do you still make poetry?" "Yes, I make poetry." Pashka laughed again happily. "You'll come then, won't you? And don't forget the poems." "I'll come right enough. I'll bring some brandy, too." "Have you taken to drinking then?" "Oh, just a little--but now, good-bye." "Good-bye," said Ilya.