yes, brother, I must," said Vasya.
"Why, I will sign the visitors' book for you everywhere. . . . How can you? You work to-rnorrow. You must work tonight, till five o'clock in the morning, as I said, and then get to bed. Or else you will be good for nothing to-morrow. I'll wake you at eight o'clock, punctually."
"But will it be all right, your signing for me?" said Vasya, half assenting.
"Why, what could be better? Everyone does it."
"I am really afraid."
"Why, why?"
"It's all right, you know, with other people, but Yulian Mastakovitch . . . he has been so kind to me, you know, Arkasha, and when he notices it's not my own signature . . ."
"Notices! why, what a fellow you are, really, Vasya! How could he notice? . . . Come, you know I can imitate your signature awfully well, and make just the same flourish to it, upon my word I can. What nonsense! Who would notice?"
Vasya, made no reply, but emptied his glass hurriedly. Then he shook his head doubtfully.
"Vasya, dear boy! Ah, if only we succeed! Vasya, what's the matter with you, you quite frighten me! Do you know, Vasya, I am not going to bed now, I am not going to sleep! Show me, have you a great deal left?"
Vasya gave Arkady such a look that his heart sank, and his tongue failed him.
"Vasya, what is the matter? What are you thinking? Why do you look like that?"
"Arkady, I really must go to-morrow to wish Yulian Mastakovitch a happy New Year."
"Well, go then!" said Arkady, gazing at him open-eyed, in uneasy expectation. "I say, Vasya, do write faster; I am advising you for your good, I really am! How often Yulian Mastakovitch himself has said that what he likes particularly about your writing is its legibility. Why, it is all that Skoroplehin cares for, that writing should bo good and distinct like a
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