He went by the backstairs to the servants’ room, crossed himself before the ikon, wiped his beard which was covered with icicles, turned up the skirts of his coat, took out of his pocket a leather purse, and out of the purse eight roubles and fifty kopeks, and handed the change to Eugene Mihailovich.  Carefully folding the coupon, he put it in the purse.  Then, according to custom, he thanked the gentleman for his kindness, and, using the whip-handle instead of the lash, he belaboured the half-frozen horse that he had doomed to an early death, and betook himself to a public-house.

Arriving there, Ivan Mironov called for vodka and tea for which he paid eight kopeks.  Comfortable and warm after the tea, he chatted in the very best of spirits with a yard-porter who was sitting at his table.  Soon he grew communicative and told his companion all about the conditions of his life.  He told him he came from the village Vassilievsky, twelve miles from town, and also that he had his allotment of land given to him by his family, as he wanted to live apart from his father and his brothers; that he had a wife and two children; the elder boy went to school, and did not yet help him in his work.  He also said he lived in lodgings and intended going to the horse-fair the next day to look for a good horse, and, may be, to buy one.  He went on to state that he had now nearly twenty-five roubles—­only one rouble short—­and that half of it was a coupon.  He took the coupon out of his purse to show to his new friend.  The yard-porter was an illiterate man, but he said he had had such coupons given him by lodgers to change; that they were good; but that one might also chance on forged ones; so he advised the peasant, for the sake of security, to change it at once at the counter.  Ivan Mironov gave the coupon to the waiter and asked for change.  The waiter, however, did not bring the change, but came back with the manager, a bald-headed man with a shining face, who was holding the coupon in his fat hand.

“Your money is no good,” he said, showing the coupon, but apparently determined not to give it back.

“The coupon must be all right.  I got it from a gentleman.”

“It is bad, I tell you.  The coupon is forged.”

“Forged?  Give it back to me.”

“I will not.  You fellows have got to be punished for such tricks.  Of course, you did it yourself—­you and some of your rascally friends.”

“Give me the money.  What right have you—­”

“Sidor!  Call a policeman,” said the barman to the waiter.  Ivan Mironov was rather drunk, and in that condition was hard to manage.  He seized the manager by the collar and began to shout.

“Give me back my money, I say.  I will go to the gentleman who gave it to me.  I know where he lives.”

The manager had to struggle with all his force to get loose from Ivan Mironov, and his shirt was torn,—­“Oh, that’s the way you behave!  Get hold of him.”