"What's it to you, anyway?"
"My uncle's a sailor too."
"Cut it out, will you!" Kvakin flared up. "Father, brother, uncle, what's it all mean, anyway!
Better let your hair grow, Alex—looks like you've got sunstroke.
And what are you mumbling about?" he turned on Figure.
"We've got to catch those messengers tomorrow and give that Timur and his lot a licking," said Figure sullenly, nettled by the ultimatum.
They left it at that.
Withdrawing to the shade of the chapel, the chief and his assistant stopped by a painting depicting agile and muscular devils dragging howling and resisting sinners towards the everlasting furnace. Kvakin asked Figure:
"Look here, was that you in the garden where that girl lives, the one whose father was killed?"
"That's right. What about it?"
"You see, it's like this," Kvakin muttered glumly, poking his finger at the mural. "I don't give a damn for Timur's signs and I can make mincemeat of him any day. . . ."
"Okay," agreed Figure. "So what're you poking your finger at the devils for?"
"Because," replied Kvakin with a crooked grin, "even though you're a pal of mine, Figure, you're not human, you're more like this dirty fat old beast of a devil."
In the morning three of the milkwoman's regular customers were not at home when she called to deliver the milk.
It was too late for her to go to the market, so, lifting her milk can onto her shoulder, she set out on a round of the houses.
She trudged from door to door without success until she finally stopped to rest near Timur's house.
She heard a deep, pleasant voice singing in the yard.
That meant the owners were in and she might have some luck there.
As she came through the gate the old woman sang out:
"Milk, anyone want milk here?"
"Two measures!" replied a bass voice.
Lowering her can to the ground, the milkwoman turned around and saw a grizzled and tattered old man come limping out from behind the bushes brandishing a sabre.
"I was saying, did you want any milk, sir?" the milk-woman asked, backing away in alarm. "Goodness me, how rough you look!
What do you use that sabre for— to cut the grass?"
"Two measures.
You'll find a jug on the table," the old man answered shortly and stuck the point of his sabre into the ground.
"You ought to buy a scythe, sir," the milkwoman continued, hastily pouring the milk into the jug and glancing warily at the old man, "and throw that sabre away.
You might scare a simple body to death with a sabre like that."
"How much?" the old man asked, thrusting his hand into the pocket of his baggy trousers.
"The usual price," replied the milkwoman. "Two-eighty a litre.
I don't overcharge."
The old man rummaged about in his pocket and produced a large, battered revolver.
"Oi, you can pay later," the milkwoman babbled, snatching up her can and making off. "Don't trouble yourself, dearie!" she went on, almost running now and glancing back over her shoulder. "I can wait for the money." She hurried through the gate, slammed it shut and shouted out angrily from the lane:
"You ought to be put away, you old devil, and not left to run about loose.
Yes, yes!
Under lock and key is where you belong!"
The old man shrugged his shoulders, stuffed the three-ruble note which he had been holding ready back into his pocket and quickly hid the revolver behind his back, for Doctor Kolokolchikov, the elderly gentleman, was coming into the garden.
The doctor was stalking down the gravel walk with a serious and concentrated mien, leaning on his stick.
When he caught sight of the eccentric old man he coughed, adjusted his spectacles and inquired:
"Can you tell me where I can find the owner of this house, my good man?"
"I live in this house," the old man replied.
"In that case," said the elderly gentleman, tipping his straw hat, "perhaps you can tell me whether a certain young lad, one Timur Garayev, is a relative of yours?"
"He is. That 'certain young lad' happens to be my nephew."
"It pains me very much indeed to tell you this," began the elderly gentleman, clearing his throat and looking askance at the sabre which was still sticking out of the ground where its owner had left it, "but yesterday morning your nephew attempted to rob our house."
"What? My Timur tried to rob your house?"
"Yes, just imagine!" continued the elderly gentleman, trying to see what it was the old man was hiding behind his back and beginning to get worked up. "He tried to steal my flannel blanket while I was asleep."
"Who?
Timur?
Stole your flannel blanket?" The old man was quite at a loss.
The hand holding the revolver involuntarily fell to his side.