up. "What do you
think about it? Fellows like you want a lesson. Tell me, where is
your money hidden?"

Artyom drew his legs up under him and blinked. "What are you wriggling
for? Where is your money hidden? Have you lost your tongue, you
fool? Why don't you answer?"

The young man jumped up and went up to the forester.

"He is blinking like an owl! Well? Give me your money, or I will
shoot you with my gun."

"Why do you keep on at me?" squealed the forester, and big tears
rolled from his eyes. "What's the reason of it? God sees all! You
will have to answer, for every word you say, to God. You have no
right whatever to ask for my money."

The young man looked at Artyom's tearful face, frowned, and walked
up and down the hut, then angrily clapped his cap on his head and
picked up his gun.

"Ugh! . . . ugh! . . . it makes me sick to look at you," he filtered
through his teeth. "I can't bear the sight of you. I won't sleep
in your house, anyway. Good-bye! Hey, Flerka!"

The door slammed and the troublesome visitor went out with his dog.
. . . Artyom bolted the door after him, crossed himself, and lay
down.

AN ACTOR'S END

SHTCHIPTSOV, the "heavy father" and "good-hearted simpleton," a
tall and thick-set old man, not so much distinguished by his talents
as an actor as by his exceptional physical strength, had a desperate
quarrel with the manager during the performance, and just when the
storm of words was at its height felt as though something had snapped
in his chest. Zhukov, the manager, as a rule began at the end of
every heated discussion to laugh hysterically and to fall into a
swoon; on this occasion, however, Shtchiptsov did not remain for
this climax, but hurried home. The high words and the sensation of
something ruptured in his chest so agitated him as he left the
theatre that he forgot to wash off his paint, and did nothing but
take off his beard.

When he reached his hotel room, Shtchiptsov spent a long time pacing
up and down, then sat down on the bed, propped his head on his
fists, and sank into thought. He sat like that without stirring or
uttering a sound till two o'clock the next afternoon, when Sigaev,
the comic man, walked into his room.

"Why is it you did not come to the rehearsal, Booby Ivanitch?" the
comic man began, panting and filling the room with fumes of vodka.
"Where have you been?"

Shtchiptsov made no answer, but simply stared at the comic man with
lustreless eyes, under