Hacking at the thick bamboo . . .
The last Gavrila for that day worked in a bakery.
He was found a place in the editorial office of The Cake Worker.
The poem had the long and sad title of
"Bread, Standards of Output, and One's Sweetheart".
The poem was dedicated to a mysterious Hina Chlek.
The beginning was as epic as before:
Gavrila had a job as baker.
Gavrila baked the cakes and bread . . .
After a delicate argument, the dedication was deleted.
The saddest thing of all was that no one gave Lapis any money.
Some promised to pay him on Tuesday, others said Thursday, or Friday in two weeks' time.
He was forced to go and borrow money from the enemy camp-the place where he was never published.
Lapis went down to the second floor and entered the office of the Lathe.
To his misfortune he immediately bumped into Persidsky, the slogger.
"Ah!" exclaimed Persidsky, "Lapsus!"
"Listen," said Nikifor Lapis, lowering his voice. "Let me have three roubles.
Gerasim and Mumu owes me a pile of cash."
"I'll give you half a rouble.
Wait a moment.
I'm just coming."
And Persidsky returned with a dozen employees of the Lathe.
Everyone joined in the conversation.
"Well, how have you been making out?" asked Persidsky.
"I've written a marvellous poem!"
"About Gavrila?
Something peasanty?
'Gavrila ploughed the fields early. Gavrila just adored his plough'?"
"Not about Gavrila.
That's a pot-boiler," said Lapis defensively. "I've written about the Caucasus."
"Have you ever been to the Caucasus?"
"I'm going in two weeks."
"Aren't you afraid, Lapis?
There are jackals there."
"Takes more than that to frighten me.
Anyway, the ones in the Caucasus aren't poisonous."
They all pricked up their ears at this reply.
"Tell me, Lapis," said Persidsky, "what do you think jackals are?"
"I know what they are. Leave me alone."
"All right, tell us then if you know."
"Well, they're sort of . . . like . . . snakes."
"Yes, of course, right as usual.
You think a wild-goat's saddle is served at table together with the spurs."
"I never said that," cried Trubetskoi. . .
"You didn't say it, you wrote it.
Napernikov told me you tried to palm off some doggerel on Gerasim and Mumu, supposed to be about the everyday life of hunters.
Honestly, Lapis, why do you write about things you've never seen and haven't the first idea about?
Why is the peignoir in your poem
'Canton' an evening dress?
Why?"