hinder quarters wriggled comically, and his tail kept twirling round like the handle of a barrel-organ.
"My only friend!" said Vladimir Mikhailovich, as he stroked the black, glossy coat. As though from excess of feeling the dog turned on his back, showed his white teeth, and growled gently, joyful and excited. But Vladimir Mikhailovich sighed, petted the dog, and thought to himself, how that there was no one else in the world that would ever love him.
If he happened to return home early, and not tired out with work, he would sit down to write, and the dog curled himself into a ball on a chair somewhere near to him, opened one black eye now and again, and sleepily wagged his tail. And when excited by the process of authorship, tortured by the sufferings of his own heroes, and choking with a plethora of thoughts and mental pictures, he walked about in his room, and smoked cigarette after cigarette, the dog would follow him with an anxious look, and wag his tail more vigorously than ever.
"Shall we become famous, you and I, Vasyuk?" he would inquire of the dog, who would wag his tail in affirmation. "We'll eat liver then, is that right?"
"Right!" the dog would reply, stretching himself luxuriously. He was very fond of liver.
Vladimir Mikhailovich often had visitors. Then his aunt, with whom he lived, would bor-
