“Most likely we interrupted the woman drinking her coffee,” thought Skvortsov.  “What a cross creature she is!”

Then he saw the pseudo-schoolmaster and pseudo-student seat himself on a block of wood, and, leaning his red cheeks upon his fists, sink into thought.  The cook flung an axe at his feet, spat angrily on the ground, and, judging by the expression of her lips, began abusing him.  The beggar drew a log of wood towards him irresolutely, set it up between his feet, and diffidently drew the axe across it.  The log toppled and fell over.  The beggar drew it towards him, breathed on his frozen hands, and again drew the axe along it as cautiously as though he were afraid of its hitting his golosh or chopping off his fingers.  The log fell over again.

Skvortsov’s wrath had passed off by now, he felt sore and ashamed at the thought that he had forced a pampered, drunken, and perhaps sick man to do hard, rough work in the cold.

“Never mind, let him go on . . .” he thought, going from the dining-room into his study.  “I am doing it for his good!”

An hour later Olga appeared and announced that the wood had been chopped up.

“Here, give him half a rouble,” said Skvortsov.  “If he likes, let him come and chop wood on the first of every month. . . .  There will always be work for him.”

On the first of the month the beggar turned up and again earned half a rouble, though he could hardly stand.  From that time forward he took to turning up frequently, and work was always found for him:  sometimes he would sweep the snow into heaps, or clear up the shed, at another he used to beat the rugs and the mattresses.  He always received thirty to forty kopecks for his work, and on one occasion an old pair of trousers was sent out to him.

When he moved, Skvortsov engaged him to assist in packing and moving the furniture.  On this occasion the beggar was sober, gloomy, and silent; he scarcely touched the furniture, walked with hanging head behind the furniture vans, and did not even try to appear busy; he merely shivered with the cold, and was overcome with confusion when the men with the vans laughed at his idleness, feebleness, and ragged coat that had once been a gentleman’s.  After the removal Skvortsov sent for him.

“Well, I see my words have had an effect upon you,” he said, giving him a rouble.  “This is for your work.  I see that you are sober and not disinclined to work.  What is your name?”

“Lushkov.”

“I can offer you better work, not so rough, Lushkov.  Can you write?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then go with this note to-morrow to my colleague and he will give you some copying to do.  Work, don’t drink, and don’t forget what I said to you.  Good-bye.”

Skvortsov, pleased that he had put a man in the path of rectitude, patted Lushkov genially on the shoulder, and even shook hands with him at parting.

Lushkov took the letter, departed, and from that time forward did not come to the back-yard for work.