hung
his head, overcome with shame.

"Sir!" he said, laying his hand on his heart, "I really was . . .
lying! I am not a student and not a village schoolmaster. All that's
mere invention! I used to be in the Russian choir, and I was turned
out of it for drunkenness. But what can I do? Believe me, in God's
name, I can't get on without lying--when I tell the truth no one
will give me anything. With the truth one may die of hunger and
freeze without a night's lodging! What you say is true, I understand
that, but . . . what am I to do?"

"What are you to do? You ask what are you to do?" cried Skvortsov,
going close up to him. "Work--that's what you must do! You must
work!"

"Work. . . . I know that myself, but where can I get work?"

"Nonsense. You are young, strong, and healthy, and could always
find work if you wanted to. But you know you are lazy, pampered,
drunken! You reek of vodka like a pothouse! You have become false
and corrupt to the marrow of your bones and fit for nothing but
begging and lying! If you do graciously condescend to take work,
you must have a job in an office, in the Russian choir, or as a
billiard-marker, where you will have a salary and have nothing to
do! But how would you like to undertake manual labour? I'll be
bound, you wouldn't be a house porter or a factory hand! You are
too genteel for that!"

"What things you say, really . . ." said the beggar, and he gave a
bitter smile. "How can I get manual work? It's rather late for me
to be a shopman, for in trade one has to begin from a boy; no one
would take me as a house porter, because I am not of that class
. . . . And I could not get work in a factory; one must know a trade,
and I know nothing."

"Nonsense! You always find some justification! Wouldn't you like
to chop wood?"

"I would not refuse to, but the regular woodchoppers are out of
work now."

"Oh, all idlers argue like that! As soon as you are offered anything
you refuse it. Would you care to chop wood for me?"

"Certainly I will. . ."

"Very good, we shall see. . . . Excellent. We'll see!" Skvortsov,
in nervous haste; and not without malignant pleasure, rubbing his
hands, summoned his cook from the kitchen.

"Here, Olga," he said to her, "take this gentleman to the shed and
let him chop some wood."

The beggar shrugged his shoulders as though puzzled, and irresolutely
followed the cook. It was evident from his demeanour that he had
consented to go and chop wood, not