Suddenly something strange happened to one of the soldiers playing cards....  He called hearts diamonds, got muddled in his score, and dropped his cards, then with a frightened, foolish smile looked round at all of them.

“I shan’t be a minute, mates, I’ll...” he said, and lay down on the floor.

Everybody was amazed.  They called to him, he did not answer.

“Stephan, maybe you are feeling bad, eh?” the soldier with his arm in a sling asked him.  “Perhaps we had better bring the priest, eh?”

“Have a drink of water, Stepan...” said the sailor.  “Here, lad, drink.”

“Why are you knocking the jug against his teeth?” said Gusev angrily.  “Don’t you see, turnip head?”

“What?”

“What?” Gusev repeated, mimicking him.  “There is no breath in him, he is dead!  That’s what!  What nonsensical people, Lord have mercy on us...!”

III

The ship was not rocking and Pavel Ivanitch was more cheerful.  He was no longer ill-humoured.  His face had a boastful, defiant, mocking expression.  He looked as though he wanted to say:  “Yes, in a minute I will tell you something that will make you split your sides with laughing.”  The little round window was open and a soft breeze was blowing on Pavel Ivanitch.  There was a sound of voices, of the plash of oars in the water....  Just under the little window someone began droning in a high, unpleasant voice:  no doubt it was a Chinaman singing.

“Here we are in the harbour,” said Pavel Ivanitch, smiling ironically.  “Only another month and we shall be in Russia.  Well, worthy gentlemen and warriors!  I shall arrive at Odessa and from there go straight to Harkov.  In Harkov I have a friend, a literary man.  I shall go to him and say, ‘Come, old man, put aside your horrid subjects, ladies’ amours and the beauties of nature, and show up human depravity.’”

For a minute he pondered, then said: 

“Gusev, do you know how I took them in?”

“Took in whom, Pavel Ivanitch?”

“Why, these fellows....  You know that on this steamer there is only a first-class and a third-class, and they only allow peasants—­that is the rift-raft—­to go in the third.  If you have got on a reefer jacket and have the faintest resemblance to a gentleman or a bourgeois you must go first-class, if you please.  You must fork out five hundred roubles if you die for it.  Why, I ask, have you made such a rule?  Do you want to raise the prestige of educated Russians thereby?  Not a bit of it.  We don’t let you go third-class simply because a decent person can’t go third-class; it is very horrible and disgusting.  Yes, indeed.  I am very grateful for such solicitude for decent people’s welfare.  But in any case, whether it is nasty there or nice, five hundred roubles I haven’t got.  I haven’t pilfered government money.  I haven’t exploited the natives, I haven’t trafficked in contraband, I have flogged no one to death, so judge whether I have the right to travel first-class and even less to reckon myself of the educated class?  But you won’t catch them with logic....  One has to resort to deception.  I put on a workman’s coat and high boots, I assumed a drunken, servile mug and went to the agents:  ‘Give us a little ticket, your honour,’ said I....”