vour, Semyon Mitritch, give us the gun. Make us
pray for you for ever. As ill-luck would have it, Ignashka has
pledged his gun for drink too. Ah, when you drink you feel nothing,
but now . . . ah, I wish I had never looked at it, the cursed vodka!
Truly it is the blood of Satan! Give it us, Semyon Mitritch!"

"I won't give it you," says Semyon, clasping his yellow hands on
his breast as though he were going to pray. "You must act fairly,
Filimonushka. . . . A thing is not taken out of pawn just anyhow;
you must pay the money. . . . Besides, what do you want to kill
birds for? What's the use? It's Lent now--you are not going to
eat them."

Slyunka exchanges glances with Ryabov in embarrassment, sighs, and
says: "We would only go stand-shooting."

"And what for? It's all foolishness. You are not the sort of man
to spend your time in foolishness. . . . Ignashka, to be sure, is
a man of no understanding, God has afflicted him, but you, thank
the Lord, are an old man. It's time to prepare for your end. Here,
you ought to go to the midnight service."

The allusion to his age visibly stings Slyunka. He clears his throat,
wrinkles up his forehead, and remains silent for a full minute.

"I say, Semyon Mitritch," he says hotly, getting up and twitching
not only in his right cheek but all over his face. "It's God's
truth. . . . May the Almighty strike me dead, after Easter I shall
get something from Stepan Kuzmitch for an axle, and I will pay you
not one rouble but two! May the Lord chastise me! Before the holy
image, I tell you, only give me the gun!"

"Gi-ive it," Ryabov says in his growling bass; they can hear him
breathing hard, and it seems that he would like to say a great deal,
but cannot find the words. "Gi-ive it."

"No, brothers, and don't ask," sighs Semyon, shaking his head
mournfully. "Don't lead me into sin. I won't give you the gun. It's
not the fashion for a thing to be taken out of pawn and no money
paid. Besides--why this indulgence? Go your way and God bless
you!"

Slyunka rubs his perspiring face with his sleeve and begins hotly
swearing and entreating. He crosses himself, holds out his hands
to the ikon, calls his deceased father and mother to bear witness,
but Semyon sighs and meekly looks as before at the string of bread
rings. In the end Ignashka Ryabov, hitherto motionless, gets up
impulsively and bows down to the ground before the innkeeper, but
even that has no effect on him.

"May you choke