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"Then go with this note to-morrow to my colleague and he will give you some copying to do. Work, don't drink, and don't forget what I said to you. Good-bye." Skvortsov, pleased that he had put a man in the path of rectitude, patted Lushkov genially on the shoulder, and even shook hands with him at parting.
Skvortsov, a Petersburg lawyer, looked at the speaker's tattered dark blue overcoat, at his muddy, drunken eyes, at the red patches on his cheeks, and it seemed to him that he had seen the man before. "And now I am offered a post in the Kaluga province," the beggar continued, "but I have not the means for the journey there. Graciously help me!
After the removal Skvortsov sent for him. "Well, I see my words have had an effect upon you," he said, giving him a rouble. "This is for your work. I see that you are sober and not disinclined to work. What is your name?" "Lushkov." "I can offer you better work, not so rough, Lushkov. Can you write?" "Yes, sir."
When he moved, Skvortsov engaged him to assist in packing and moving the furniture.
What you say is true, I understand that, but . . . what am I to do?" "What are you to do? You ask what are you to do?" cried Skvortsov, going close up to him. "Work that's what you must do! You must work!" "Work. . . . I know that myself, but where can I get work?" "Nonsense. You are young, strong, and healthy, and could always find work if you wanted to.
"Oh, all idlers argue like that! As soon as you are offered anything you refuse it. Would you care to chop wood for me?" "Certainly I will. . ." "Very good, we shall see. . . . Excellent. We'll see!" Skvortsov, in nervous haste; and not without malignant pleasure, rubbing his hands, summoned his cook from the kitchen.
Lushkov took the letter, departed, and from that time forward did not come to the back-yard for work. Two years passed. One day as Skvortsov was standing at the ticket-office of a theatre, paying for his ticket, he saw beside him a little man with a lambskin collar and a shabby cat's-skin cap. The man timidly asked the clerk for a gallery ticket and paid for it with kopecks.
"Lushkov, is it you?" asked Skvortsov, recognizing in the little man his former woodchopper. "Well, what are you doing? Are you getting on all right?" "Pretty well. . . . I am in a notary's office now. I earn thirty-five roubles." "Well, thank God, that's capital. I rejoice for you. I am very, very glad, Lushkov. You know, in a way, you are my godson. It was I who shoved you into the right way.
The ragged figure took hold of the door-handle and, like a bird in a snare, looked round the hall desperately. "I . . . I am not lying," he muttered. "I can show documents." "Who can believe you?" Skvortsov went on, still indignant. "To exploit the sympathy of the public for village schoolmasters and students it's so low, so mean, so dirty! It's revolting!"
Skvortsov flew into a rage and gave the beggar a merciless scolding. The ragged fellow's insolent lying aroused his disgust and aversion, was an offence against what he, Skvortsov, loved and prized in himself: kindliness, a feeling heart, sympathy for the unhappy.
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