A big, red-haired man, one of the group of seven, drew from his pocket two vials.  In one was a sticky black fluid; in the other, something as clear as water.

“We are chemists, you see,” the red-nosed man explained to Bodlevski with a grin, and then added: 

“Finch! on guard!”

A young man, who had been lolling on a couch in the corner, rose and took up a position outside the door.

“Now, brothers, close up!” cried the red-nosed man, and all stood in close order, elbow to elbow, round the table.  “And now we take a newspaper and have it handy on the table!  That is in case,” he explained to Bodlevski, “any outsider happened in on us—­which Heaven prevent!  We aren’t up to anything at all; simply reading the political news!  You catch on?”

“How could I help catching on?”

“Very well.  And now let us make everything as clear as in a looking-glass.  What class do you wish to make the person belong to?  The commercial or the nobility?”

“I think the nobility would be best,” said Bodlevski.

“Certainly!  At least that will give the right of free passage through all the towns and districts of the Russian Empire.  Let us see.  Have we not something that will suit?”

And Pacomius Borisovitch, opening his portfolio, filled with all kinds of passports, certificates, and papers of identification, began to turn them over, but without taking any out of the portfolio.  All with the same thought—­that some stranger might come in.

“Ha! here’s a new one!  Where did it come from?” he cried.

“I got it out of a new arrival,” muttered the red-headed man.

“Well done!  Just what we want!  And a noble’s passport, too!  It is evident that Heaven is helping us.  See what a blessing brings!

“‘This passport is issued by the District of Yaroslav,’” he continued reading, “’to the college assessor’s widow, Maria Solontseva, with permission to travel,’” and so on in due form.  “Did you get it here?” he added, turning to the red-headed man.

“Came from Moscow!”

“Pinched?”

“Knocked on the head!” briefly replied the red-headed man.

“Knocked on the head?” repeated Pacomius Borisovitch.  “Serious business.  Comes under sections 332 and 727 of the Penal Code.”

“Driveling again!” cried the red-headed man.  “I’ll teach you to talk about the Penal Code!” and rising deliberately, he dealt Pacomius Borisovitch a well-directed blow on the head, which sent him rolling into the corner.  Pacomius picked himself up, blinking with indignation.

“What is the meaning of such conduct?” he asked loftily.

“It means,” said the red-headed man, “that if you mention the Penal Code again I’ll knock your head off!”

“Brothers, brothers!” cried Yuzitch in a good-humored tone; “we are losing precious time!  Forgive him!” he added, turning to Pacomius.  “You must forgive him!”