“I’m always intending to make you a visit, but I never have the time:  I’m always drunk—­”

“That’ll do, that’ll do, drop that—­Stop joking, bony devil!  If you don’t, comrade, I—­Or do you really intend to rob houses and streets?”

“Why?  There’s enough here for both of us.  My God, yes!—­Semenitch!  You’ve stolen two boxes of goods again?—­Look out, Semenitch, be careful!  Or you’ll be caught one of these days!”

Semenitch trembled with anger at the impudence of Tchelkache; he spat upon the ground in a vain effort to speak.  Tchelkache let go his hand and turned back quietly and deliberately at the entrance to the wharf.  The officer, swearing like a trooper, followed him.

Tchelkache had recovered his spirits; he whistled softly between his teeth, and, thrusting his hands in his trousers’ pockets, walked slowly, like a man who has nothing to do, throwing to the right and left scathing remarks and jests.  He received replies in kind.

“Happy Grichka, what good care the authorities take of him!” cried someone in a group of ’longshoremen who had eaten their dinner and were lying, stretched out on the ground.

“I have no shoes; Semenitch is afraid that I may hurt my feet,” replied Tchelkache.

They reached the gate.  Two soldiers searched Tchelkache and pushed him gently aside.

“Don’t let him come back again!” cried Semenitch, who had remained inside.

Tchelkache crossed the road and seated himself on a stepping-block in front of the inn door.  From the wharf emerged an interminable stream of loaded wagons.  From the opposite direction arrived empty wagons at full speed, the drivers jolting up and down on the seats.  The quay emitted a rumbling as of thunder; accompanied by an acrid dust.  The ground seemed to shake.

Accustomed to this mad turmoil, stimulated by his scene with Semenitch, Tchelkache felt at peace with all the world.  The future promised him substantial gain without great outlay of energy or skill on his part.  He was sure that neither the one nor the other would fail him; screwing up his eyes, he thought of the next day’s merry-making when, his work accomplished, he should have a roll of bills in his pocket.  Then his thoughts reverted to his friend Michka, who would have been of so much use to him that night, if he had not broken his leg.  Tchelkache swore inwardly at the thought that for want of Michka he might perhaps fail in his enterprise.  What was the night going to be?—­He questioned the sky and inspected the street.

Six steps away, was a boy squatting in the road near the sidewalk, his back against a post; he was dressed in blue blouse and trousers, tan shoes, and a russet cap.  Near him lay a little bag and a scythe, without a handle, wrapped in hay carefully bound with string.  The boy was broad shouldered and fairhaired with a sun-burned and tanned face; his eyes were large and blue and gazed at Tchelkache confidingly and pleasantly.