His step was brisk, his brow
was dark and his boots creaked ominously. With a very brief salutation he
passed into the back shop, slipped off his coat and set to work with the
determination of a man who feels that he must do something active as a
momentary relief to his feelings.
Next came Vjera, paler than ever, with great black rings under her tired
eyes, broken with the fatigues and anxieties of the previous day, but
determined to double her work, if that were possible, in order to make up
for the money she had borrowed of Schmidt and, through him, of Dumnoff. As
she dropped her shawl, Fischelowitz caught sight of the back of her head,
and broke into a laugh.
"Why, Vjera!" he cried. "What have you done? You have made yourself look
perfectly ridiculous!"
The poor girl turned scarlet, and busied herself at her table without
answering. Her fingers trembled as she tried to handle her glass tube. The
Cossack, whose anger had not been diluted by being left to boil all night,
dropped his swivel knife and went up to Fischelowitz with a look in his
face so extremely disagreeable that the tobacconist drew back a little,
not knowing what to expect.
"I will tell you something," said Schmidt, savagely. "You will have to
change your manners if you expect any of us to work for you."
"What do you mean?" stammered Fischelowitz, in whom nature had omitted to
implant the gift of physical courage, except in such measure as saved him
from the humiliation of being afraid of his wife.
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