"Is it here in the house then?"
"That's right."
"Tell me, old fellow," said Ippolit Matveyevich, his heart beating fast, "when you had the chair, did you . . . ever repair it?"
"It didn't need repairing.
Workmanship was good in those days.
The chair could last another thirty years."
"Right, off you go, old fellow. Here's another rouble and don't tell anyone I'm here."
"I'll be a tomb, Citizen Vorobyaninov."
Sending the caretaker on his way with a cry of "Things are moving," Ostap Bender again turned to Ippolit Matveyevich's moustache.
"It will have to be dyed again.
Give me some money and I'll go to the chemist's.
Your Titanic is no damn good, except for dogs. In the old days they really had good dyes.
A racing expert once told me an interesting story.
Are you interested in horse-racing?
No?
A pity; it's exciting.
Well, anyway . . . there was once a well-known trickster called Count Drutsky.
He lost five hundred thousand roubles on races.
King of the losers!
So when he had nothing left except debts and was thinking about suicide, a shady character gave him a wonderful piece of advice for fifty roubles.
The count went away and came back a year later with a three-year-old Orloff trotter.
From that moment on the count not only made up all his losses, but won three hundred thousand on top.
Broker-that was the name of the horse-had an excellent pedigree and always came in first.
He actually beat McMahon in the Derby by a whole length.
Terrific! . . .
But then Kurochkin-heard of him?-noticed that all the horses of the Orloff breed were losing their coats, while Broker, the darling, stayed the same colour.
There was an unheard-of scandal.
The count got three years.
It turned out that Broker wasn't an Orloff at all, but a crossbreed that had been dyed. Crossbreeds are much more spirited than Orloffs and aren't allowed within yards of them!
Which?
There's a dye for you!
Not quite like your moustache!"
"But what about the pedigree?
You said it was a good one."
"Just like the label on your bottle of Titanic-counterfeit!
Give me the money for the dye."
Ostap came back with a new mixture.
"It's called 'Naiad'.
It may be better than the Titanic.
Take your coat off!"
The ceremony of re-dyeing began. But the "Amazing chestnut colour making the hair soft and fluffy" when mixed with the green of the Titanic unexpectedly turned Ippolit Matveyevich's head and moustache all colours of the rainbow.
Vorobyaninov, who had not eaten since morning, furiously cursed all the perfumeries, both those state-owned and the illegal ones on Little Arnaut Street in Odessa.
"I don't suppose even Aristide Briand had a moustache like that," observed Ostap cheerfully. "However, I don't recommend living in Soviet Russia with ultra-violet hair like yours.
It will have to be shaved off."
"I can't do that," said Ippolit Matveyevich in a deeply grieved voice. "That's impossible."
"Why? Has it some association or other?"
"I can't do that," repeated Vorobyaninov, lowering his head.
"Then you can stay in the caretaker's room for the rest of your life, and I'll go for the chairs.
The first one is upstairs, by the way."
"All right, shave it then!"