"You have thieves in no. 7!" howled the yard-keeper. "Riffraff of all kinds!
That seven-sired viper!
Secondary education indeed!
I don't give a damn for his secondary education!
Damn stinkard!"
During this, the seven-sired viper with secondary education was sitting behind the dustbin and feeling depressed.
Window-frames flew open with a bang, and amused tenants poked out their heads.
People strolled into the yard from outside in curiosity.
At the sight of an audience, the yard-keeper became even more heated.
"Fitter-mechanic!" he cried. "Damn aristocrat!"
The yard-keeper's parliamentary expressions were richly interspersed with swear words, to which he gave preference.
The members of the fair sex crowding around the windows were very annoyed at the yard-keeper, but stayed where they were.
"I'll push his face in!" he raged. "Education indeed!"
While the scene was at its height, a militiaman appeared and quietly began hauling the fellow off to the police station.
He was assisted by Some young toughs from Fastpack.
The yard-keeper put his arms around the militiaman's neck and burst into tears.
The danger was over.
A weary Victor Mikhailovich jumped out from behind the dustbin.
There was a stir among the audience.
"Bum!" cried Polesov in the wake of the procession.
"I'll show you!
You louse!"
But the yard-keeper was weeping bitterly and could not hear.
He was carried to the police station, and the sign "Metal Workshop and Primus Stove Repairs" was also taken along as factual evidence.
Victor Mikhailovich bristled with fury for some time.
"Sons of bitches!" he said, turning to the spectators. "Conceited bums!"
"That's enough, Victor Mikhailovich," called Elena Stanislavovna from the window. "Come in here a moment."
She placed a dish of stewed fruit in front of Polesov and, pacing up and down the room, began asking him questions.
"But I tell you it was him-without his moustache, but definitely him," said Polesov, shouting as usual. "I know him well.
It was the spitting image of Vorobyaninov."
"Not so loud, for heaven's sake!
Why do you think he's here?"
An ironic smile appeared on Polesov's face.
"Well, what do you think? "
He chuckled with even greater irony.
"At any rate, not to sign a treaty with the Bolsheviks."
"Do you think he's in danger? "
The reserves of irony amassed by Polesov over the ten years since the revolution were inexhaustible.
A series of smiles of varying force and scepticism lit up his face.
"Who isn't in danger in Soviet Russia, especially a man in Vorobyaninov's position.
Moustaches, Elena Stanislavovna, are not shaved off for nothing."
"Has he been sent from abroad?" asked Elena Stanislavovna, almost choking.
"Definitely," replied the brilliant mechanic.
"What is his purpose here?"
"Don't be childish!"
"I must see him all the same."
"Do you know what you're risking? "
"I don't care.
After ten years of separation I cannot do otherwise than see Ippolit Matveyevich."
And it actually seemed to her that fate had parted them while they were still in love with one another.