Then came a swell in a suede cap with a yellow leather peak.
He was pursued by some elementary-school children carrying books tied with straps.
Suddenly Ippolit Matveyevich felt a hotness in his palms and a sinking feeling in his stomach.
A stranger with a kindly face was coming straight towards him, carrying a chair by the middle, like a 'cello.
Suddenly developing hiccups Ippolit Matveyevich looked closely at the chair and immediately recognized it.
Yes!
It was a Hambs chair upholstered in flowered English chintz somewhat darkened by the storms of the revolution; it was a walnut chair with curved legs.
Ippolit Matveyevich felt as though a gun had gone off in his ear.
"Knives and scissors sharpened! Razors set!" cried a baritone voice nearby.
And immediately came the shrill echo;
"Soldering and repairing!"
"Moscow News, magazine Giggler, Red Meadow."
Somewhere up above, a glass pane was removed with a crash.
A truck from the grain-mill-and-lift-construction administration passed by, making the town vibrate.
A militiaman blew his whistle.
Everything brimmed over with life.
There was no time to be lost.
With a leopard-like spring, Ippolit Matveyevich leaped towards the repulsive stranger and silently tugged at the chair.
The stranger tugged the other way.
Still holding on to one leg with his left hand, Ippolit Matveyevich began forcibly detaching the stranger's fat fingers from the chair.
"Thief!" hissed the stranger, gripping the chair more firmly.
"Just a moment, just a moment!" mumbled Ippolit Matveyevich, continuing to unstick the stranger's fingers.
A crowd began to gather.
Three or four people were already standing nearby, watching the struggle with lively interest.
They both glanced around in alarm and, without looking at one another or letting go the chair, rapidly moved on as if nothing were the matter.
"What's happening?" wondered Ippolit Matveyevich in dismay.
What the stranger was thinking was impossible to say, but he was walking in a most determined way.
They kept walking more and more quickly until they saw a clearing scattered with bits of brick and other building materials at the end of a blind alley; then both turned into it simultaneously.
Ippolit Matveyevich's strength now increased fourfold.
"Give it to me!" he shouted, doing away with all ceremony.
"Help!" exclaimed the stranger, almost inaudibly.
Since both of them had their hands occupied with the chair, they began kicking one another.
The stranger's boots had metal studs, and at first Ippolit Matveyevich came off badly.
But he soon adjusted himself, and, skipping to the left and right as though doing a Cossack dance, managed to dodge his opponents' blows, trying at the same time to catch him in the stomach.
He was not successful, since the chair was in the way, but he managed to land him a kick on the kneecap, after which the enemy could only lash out with one leg.
"Oh, Lord!" whispered the stranger.
It was at this moment that Ippolit Matveyevich saw that the stranger who had carried off his chair in the most outrageous manner was none other than Father Theodore, priest of the Church of St. Frol and St. Laurence.
"Father!" he exclaimed, removing his hands from the chair in astonishment.
Father Vostrikov turned purple and finally loosed his grip.
The chair, no longer supported by either of them, fell on to the brick-strewn ground.
"Where's your moustache, my dear Ippolit Matveyevich?" asked the cleric as caustically as possible.
"And what about your curls?
You used to have curls, I believe!"
Ippolit Matveyevich's words conveyed utter contempt.
He threw Father Theodore a look of singular disgust and, tucking the chair under his arm, turned to go.
But the priest had now recovered from his embarrassment and was not going to yield Vorobyaninov such an easy victory.
With a cry of
"No, I'm sorry," he grasped hold of the chair again.
Their initial position was restored.
The two opponents stood clutching the chair and, moving from side to side, sized one another up like cats or boxers.