gers with thanks, and recalled sadly his own Japanese cigarette case, his study, his dear blue copy books. It was nauseating. The tobacco was strong, foul odoured—tobacco for spies. It was nauseating.
"Do you often get a drubbing?"
"Look here——"
"The light-haired fellow told me that he had never been thrashed yet. I suppose he lied. How is it possible that you people shouldn't get any thrashing," the porter smiled good naturedly.
"I must find out——"
"One must have ability and a suitable face. I have seen a spy whose face was crooked and one eye was missing. What is a man like that good for? His face was crooked, and in place of an eye there was a hole. You, for instance——"
"Look here!" Mitrofan exclaimed softly. "I have no time. I have other things to attend to."
Unwillingly dropping this interesting theme, the porter questioned Mitrofan about the girl, what she looked like, and said:
"I know her. She comes here often. No. 7, Ivanova. Why do you throw the cigarette on the floor? There is a stove. All I have to do is to sweep here after you."
"Blockhead!" Mitrofan replied quietly, and walked out into the side street, looking for an izvozchik.
"Home, I must go home at once! My God.
