Tchelkache humored him.

“Enough said, wait a little.  Let us go to the tavern.”

They walked side by side along the street; Tchelkache twisting his moustache with the important air of an employer, the lad submissively, but at the same time filled with distrust and fear.

“What’s your name?” asked Tchelkache.

“Gavrilo,” replied the lad.

When they had entered the dirty and smoky ale-house Tchelkache went up to the bar and ordered, in the familiar tone of a regular customer, a bottle of brandy, cabbage soup, roast beef and tea, and, after enumerating the order, said briefly:  “to be charged!” To which the boy responded by a silent nod.  At this, Gavrilo was filled with great respect for his master, who, despite his knavish exterior, was so well known and treated with so much confidence.

“There, let us eat a bite, and talk afterward.  Wait for me an instant, I will be back directly.”

He went out.  Gavrilo looked around him.  The ale-house was in a basement; it was damp and dark and reeking with tobacco smoke, tar and a musty odor.  In front of Gavrilo, at another table, was a drunken sailor, with a red beard, all covered with charcoal and tar.  He was humming, interrupted by frequent hiccoughs, a fragment of a song very much out of tune.  He was evidently not a Russian.

Behind him were two ragged women from Moldavia, black-haired and sun-burned; they were also grinding out a song.

Further on, other faces started out from the darkness, all dishevelled, half drunk, writhing, restless. . .

Gavrilo was afraid to remain alone.  He longed for his master’s return.  The divers noises of the ale-house blended in one single note:  it seemed like the roaring of some enormous animal with a hundred voices, struggling blindly and furiously in this stone box and finding no issue.  Gavrilo felt himself growing heavy and dull as though his body had absorbed intoxication; his head swam and he could not see, in spite of his desire to satisfy his curiosity.

Tchelkache returned; he ate and drank while he talked.  At the third glass Gavrilo was drunk.  He grew lively; he wanted to say something nice to his host, who, worthy man that he was, was treating him so well, before he had availed himself of his services.  But the words, which vaguely mounted to his throat, refused to leave his suddenly thick tongue.

Tchelkache looked at him.  He said, smiling sarcastically.

“So you’re done for, already! . . . it isn’t possible!  Just for five small glasses!  How will you manage to work?”

“Friend,” stammered Gavrilo, “don’t be afraid!  I will serve you.  Ah, how I’ll serve you!  Let me embrace you, come?”

“That’s right, that’s right! . . .  One more glass?”

Gavrilo drank.  Everything swam before his eyes in unequal waves.  That was unpleasant and gave him nausea.  His face had a stupid expression.  In his efforts to speak, he protruded his lips comically and roared.  Tchelkache looked at him fixedly as though he was recalling something, then without turning aside his gaze twisted his moustache and smiled, but this time, moodily and viciously.