We'll sit it out.
It's only one night."
The next day the Columbus Theatre was sitting in the buffet at Kursk Station.
Having taken steps to see that the scenic effects went by the same train, Simbievich-Sindievich was having a snack at one of the tables.
Dipping his moustache into the beer, he asked the fitter nervously:
"The hydraulic press won't get broken on the way, will it?"
"It's not the press that's the trouble," said fitter Mechnikov. "It's that it only works for five minutes and we have to cart it around the whole summer."
"Was it any easier with the 'time projector' from the Ideology Powder!"
"Of course it was.
The projector was big, but not so fragile."
At the next table sat Agafya Tikhonovna, a youngish woman with hard shiny legs, like skittles.
The sound effects -Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind-fussed around her.
"You didn't keep in time with me yesterday," she complained. "I might have fallen off."
"What can we do?" clamoured the sound effects.
"Two douches broke."
"You think it's easy to get an Esmarch douche from abroad nowadays? " cried Galkin.
"Just try going to the State Medical Supply Office.
It's impossible to buy a thermometer, let alone an Esmarch douche," added Palkin.
"Do you play thermometers as well?" asked the girl, horrified.
"It's not that we play thermometers," observed Zalkind, "but that the damned douches are enough to drive you out of your mind and we have to take our own temperatures."
Nich. Sestrin, stage manager and producer, was strolling along the platform with his wife.
Podkolesin and Kochkarev had downed three vodkas and were wooing Georgetta Tiraspolskikh, each trying to outdo the other.
The concessionaires had arrived two hours before the train was due to depart and were now on their sixth round of the garden laid out in front of the station.
Ippolit Matveyevich's head was whirling.
The hunt for the chairs was entering the last lap.
Long shadows fell on the scorching roadway.
Dust settled on their wet, sweaty faces.
Cabs rattled past them and there was a smell of petrol. Hired vehicles set down their passengers.
Porters ran up to them and carried off the bags, while their badges glittered in the sun.
The Muse of Travel had people by the throat.
"Let's get going as well," said Ostap.
Ippolit Matveyevich meekly consented.
All of a sudden he came face to face with Bezenchuk, the undertaker.
"Bezenchuk!" he exclaimed in amazement. "How did you get here?"
Bezenchuk doffed his cap and was speechless with joy.
"Mr. Vorobyaninov," he cried. "Greetin's to an honoured guest."
"Well, how are things?"
"Bad," answered the undertaker.
"Why is that?"
"I'm lookin' for clients.
There ain't none about."
"Is the Nymph doing better than you?"
"Likely!
Could they do better than me?
No chance.
Since your mother-in-law, only Tierre and Constantine' has croaked."
"You don't say!
Did he really die?"
"He croaked, Ippolit Matveyevich.
He croaked at his post.