denly left off weeping, and his
face was contorted with anger.

"You ninny!" he said angrily to his wife. "You are an idiot! Is
that the ikon?"

"Ach, saints alive!"

What had happened? The writing master raised himself and saw that
he was saved; in her flutter the mamma had snatched from the wall
the portrait of Lazhetchnikov, the author, in mistake for the ikon.
Old Peplov and his wife stood disconcerted in the middle of the
room, holding the portrait aloft, not knowing what to do or what
to say. The writing master took advantage of the general confusion
and slipped away.

FAT AND THIN

Two friends--one a fat man and the other a thin man--met at the
Nikolaevsky station. The fat man had just dined in the station and
his greasy lips shone like ripe cherries. He smelt of sherry and
_fleur d'orange_. The thin man had just slipped out of the train
and was laden with portmanteaus, bundles, and bandboxes. He smelt
of ham and coffee grounds. A thin woman with a long chin, his wife,
and a tall schoolboy with one eye screwed up came into view behind
his back.

"Porfiry," cried the fat man on seeing the thin man. "Is it you?
My dear fellow! How many summers, how many winters!"

"Holy saints!" cried the thin man in amazement. "Misha! The friend
of my childhood! Where have you dropped from?"

The friends kissed each other three times, and gazed at each other
with eyes full of tears. Both were agreeably astounded.

"My dear boy!" began the thin man after the kissing. "This is
unexpected! This is a surprise! Come have a good look at me! Just
as handsome as I used to be! Just as great a darling and a dandy!
Good gracious me! Well, and how are you? Made your fortune? Married?
I am married as you see. . . . This is my wife Luise, her maiden
name was Vantsenbach . . . of the Lutheran persuasion. . . . And
this is my son Nafanail, a schoolboy in the third class. This is
the friend of my childhood, Nafanya. We were boys at school together!"

Nafanail thought a little and took off his cap.

"We were boys at school together," the thin man went on. "Do you
remember how they used to tease you? You were nicknamed Herostratus
because you burned a hole in a schoolbook with a cigarette, and I
was nicknamed Ephialtes because I was fond of telling tales. Ho--ho!
. . . we were children! . . . Don't be shy, Nafanya. Go nearer to
him. And this is my wife, her maiden name was Vantsenbach, of the
Lutheran persuasion. . . ."

Nafanail