of walking, why you take a cab and sit in it like a
lord. And if you don't feel like paying, then you don't.
Every house has an open-work gate and you can slip
through and the devil himself won't catch you. There's
one bad thing, though; sometimes you get first class eats
and sometimes you're so starved you nearly drop--like
now. It's all his fault. What can you do with him?
His dad sends him money to keep him going, but the
devil a lot it does. He goes off on a spree, rides in
cabs, gets me to buy a theeadre ticket for him every
day, and in a week look at him--sends me to the old
clo'es man to sell his new dress coat. Sometimes
he gets rid of everything down to his last shirt and is
left with nothing except his coat and overcoat. Upon
my word, it's the truth. And such fine cloth, too. English,
you know. One dress coat costs him a hundred
and fifty rubles and he sells it to the old clo'es man for
twenty. No use saying nothing about his pants. They
go for a song. And why? Because he doesn't tend
to his business. Instead of sticking to his job, he gads
about on the Prospect and plays cards. Ah, if the old
gentleman only knew it! He wouldn't care that you
are an official. He'd lift up your little shirtie and would
lay it on so that you'd go about rubbing yourself for a
week. If you have a job, stick to it. Here's the innkeeper
says he won't let you have anything to eat unless
you pay your back bills. Well, and suppose we don't
pay. [Sighing.] Oh, good God! If only I could get
cabbage soup. I think I could eat up the whole world
now. There's a knock at the door. I suppose it's him.