he says, 'Let us pray unto the Lord'! and she, in a thin little
voice like a turkey-hen, 'Lord, have mercy upon us! . . .' It's a
sin, that's what it is. Every day I say to him, 'Think what you are
doing, brother! Repent, brother!' and he takes no notice."

Sergey Nikanoritch, the waiter, poured out five glasses of tea and
carried them on a tray to the waiting-room. He had scarcely gone
in when there was a shout:

"Is that the way to serve it, pig's face? You don't know how to
wait!"

It was the voice of the station-master. There was a timid mutter,
then again a harsh and angry shout:

"Get along!"

The waiter came back greatly crestfallen.

"There was a time when I gave satisfaction to counts and princes,"
he said in a low voice; "but now I don't know how to serve tea. . . .
He called me names before the priest and the ladies!"

The waiter, Sergey Nikanoritch, had once had money of his own, and
had kept a buffet at a first-class station, which was a junction,
in the principal town of a province. There he had worn a swallow-tail
coat and a gold chain. But things had gone ill with him; he had
squandered all his own money over expensive fittings and service;
he had been robbed by his staff, and getting gradually into
difficulties, had moved to another station less bustling. Here his