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He so resented this that on his return home he thrashed his children, swore at his mother, and got drunk. Yegoritch got drunk, too, to keep him company. Putohin brought me the rent, but did not apologise this time, though it was eighteen days overdue, and said nothing when he took the receipt from me.
Let me go, David Yegoritch.... Kindly take the watch. Only don't tell your papa." David let go his hold of Vassily's waistcoat. I looked into his face: certainly not only Vassily might have been frightened by it. It looked so weary ... and cold ... and angry.... Vassily dashed into the house and promptly returned with the watch in his hand.
"One party went by early this morning, and the other, Ivan Ivanitch, put up here for dinner and went on towards evening." "Ah! . . . Has Varlamov been by or not?" "No, Ivan Ivanitch. His clerk, Grigory Yegoritch, went by yesterday morning and said that he had to be to-day at the Molokans' farm." "Good! so we will go after the waggons directly and then on to the Molokans'."
Towards night, Yegoritch and Putohin go out, and in the morning Vassya cannot find granny's shawl. That is the drama that took place in that flat. After selling the shawl for drink, Putohin did not come home again. Where he disappeared to I don't know. After he disappeared, the old woman first got drunk, then took to her bed.
This room on the right was let to his lodger, Yegoritch, a locksmith a steady fellow, but given to drink; he was always too hot, and so used to go about in his waistcoat and barefoot.
On the rare occasions when I went into that flat in the evening, this was always the picture I came upon: Putohin would be sitting at his little table, copying something; his mother and his wife, a thin woman with an exhausted-looking face, were sitting near the lamp, sewing; Yegoritch would be making a rasping sound with his file.
"Where can they be, the damned things?" Semyon brought out. "I fancy I cleaned them in the evening and put them here. . . . H'm! . . . Yesterday, I must own, I had a drop. . . . I must have put them in another room, I suppose. That must be it, Afanasy Yegoritch, they are in another room!
And the hot, still smouldering embers in the stove filled the room with heat and fumes; the heavy air smelt of cabbage soup, swaddling-clothes, and Yegoritch.
Yegoritch used to mend locks, pistols, children's bicycles, would not refuse to mend cheap clocks and make skates for a quarter-rouble, but he despised that work, and looked on himself as a specialist in musical instruments. Amongst the litter of steel and iron on his table there was always to be seen a concertina with a broken key, or a trumpet with its sides bent in.
Though he is quick to notice anything irregular or disorderly, this time he makes a pretence of hearing and seeing nothing. That is suspicious. "He's sold it for drink," Yegoritch declares. Putohin says nothing, so it is the truth. Vassya is overcome with horror.
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