lower classes. The police specially endeavour to stop them, but
unsuccessfully.

Then appeared Pavel Solntseff, a man of thirty years of age,
suffering from consumption. The ribs of his left side had been
broken in a quarrel, and the sharp, yellow face, like that of a
fox, always wore a malicious smile. The thin lips, when opened,
exposed two rows of decayed black teeth, and the rags on his
shoulders swayed backwards and forwards as if they were hung on a
clothes pole. They called him "Abyedok." He hawked brushes and
bath brooms of his own manufacture, good strong brushes made from
a peculiar kind of grass.

Then followed a lean and bony man of whom no one knew anything,
with a frightened expression in his eyes, the left one of which
had a squint. He was silent and timid, and had been imprisoned
three times for theft by the High Court of Justice and the
Magisterial Courts. His family name was Kiselnikoff, but they
called him Paltara Taras, because he was a head and shoulders
taller than his friend, Deacon Taras, who had been degraded from
his office for drunkenness and immorality. The Deacon was a
short, thick-set person, with the chest of an athlete and a
round, strong head. He danced skilfully, and was still more
skilful at swearing. He and Paltara Taras worked in the wood on
the banks of the river, and in free hours he told his friend or
any one who would listen, "Tales of my own composition," as he
used to say. On hearing these stories, the heroes of which
always seemed to be saints, kings, priests, or generals, even the
inmates of the dosshouse spat and rubbed their eyes in
astonishment at the imagination of the Deacon, who told them