Platonov got up.

“I’m going away for a little while,” he said to Zavorotny.  “When you begin, I’ll be in my place.”

“Now you’ve found somethin’ to do,” lazily and contemptuously said the head of the gang.  “There’s the night for that business...Go ahead, go ahead, who’s holding you.  But only if you won’t be here when we begin work, then this day don’t count.  I’ll take any tramp.  And as many watermelons as he busts—­that’s out of your share, too...I didn’t think it of you, Platonov—­that you’re such a he-dog...”

Jennka was waiting for him in the tiny little square, sheltered between a church and the wharf, and consisting of ten sorry poplars.  She had on a gray, one-piece street dress; a simple, round, straw hat with a small black ribbon.  “And yet, even though she has dressed herself simply,” reflected Platonov, looking at her from a distance with his habitually puckered eyes, “and yet, every man will walk past, give a look, and inevitably look back three or four times; he’ll feel the especial tone at once.”

“Howdy do, Jennka!  Very glad to see you,” he said cordially, squeezing the girl’s hand.  “There, now, I didn’t expect it!”

Jennka was reserved, sad, and apparently troubled over something.  Platonov at once understood and sensed this.

“You excuse me, Jennechka, I must have dinner right away,” said he, “so, perhaps, you’ll go together with me and tell me what’s the matter, while I’ll manage to eat at the same time.  There’s a modest little inn not far from here.  At this time there are no people there at all, and there’s even a tiny little stall, a sort of a private room; that will be just the thing for you and me.  Let’s go!  Perhaps you’ll also have a bite of something.”

“No.  I won’t eat,” answered Jennka hoarsely, “and I won’t detain you for long...a few minutes.  I have to talk things over, have some advice—­but I haven’t anybody.”

“Very well...Let’s go then!  In whatever way I can, I’m always at your service, in everything.  I love you very much, Jennka!”

She looked at him sadly and gratefully.

“I know this, Serge Ivanovich; that’s why I’ve come.”

“You need money, perhaps?  Just say so.  I haven’t got much with me, myself; but the gang will trust me with an advance.”

“No, thanks...it isn’t that at all.  I’ll tell everything at once, there, where we’re going now.”

In the dim, low-ceiled little inn, the customary haunt of petty thieves, where business was carried on only in the evening, until very far into the night, Platonov took the little half-dark cubby hole.

“Give me boiled meat, cucumbers, a large glass of vodka, and bread,” he ordered the waiter.

The waiter—­a young fellow with a dirty face; pugnosed; as dirty and greasy in all his person as though he had just been pulled out of a cesspool, wiped his lips and asked hoarsely: 

“How many kopecks’ bread?” “As much as it comes to.”  Then he started laughing: