He made the bones of his slender hand crack, stretched his
legs under the table, and adjusting his mustache, asked Nikolay:
"Are you Andrey Nakhodka?"
"Yes!" answered Nikolay, moving forward. The Little Russian put
out his hand, took him by the shoulder, and pulled him back.
"He made a mistake; I am Andrey!"
The officer raised his hand, and threatening Vyesovshchikov with
his little finger, said:
"Take care!"
He began to search among his papers. From the street the bright,
moonlit night looked on through the window with soulless eyes.
Some one was loafing about outside the window, and the snow crunched
under his tread.
"You, Nakhodka, you have been searched for political offenses
before?" asked the officer.
"Yes, I was searched in Rostov and Saratov. Only there the
gendarmes addressed me as 'Mr.'"
The officer winked his right eye, rubbed it, and showing his fine
teeth, said:
"And do you happen to know, MR. Nakhodka--yes, you, MR. Nakhodka--
who those scoundrels are who distribute criminal proclamations and
books in the factory, eh?"
The Little Russian swayed his body, and with a broad smile on his
face was about to say something, when the irritating voice of
Nikolay again rang out:
"This is the first time we have seen scoundrels here!"
Silence ensued.
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