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"There's the rub," shouted Sprinkler; "if I could only jump to

the throne, and with my brush-splash-once moisten the Tsar, then

he wouldn't come back, either through the Kiev tract or the Minsk

tract, or by any one of Buchmann's contracts; the Russian priests

would not revive him either by the power of God or by that of

Beelzebub-the only brave way is to sprinkle. Pan Buchmann, your

speech was very eloquent, but eloquence is nothing but noise;

sprinkling is the principal thing."

"Good, good, good!" squealed Bartek the Razor, rubbing his hands,

and running from Sprinkler to Maciek like a shuttle thrown from

one side of the loom to the other. "Only do you, Maciek of the

switch, and you, Maciek of the club, make up your disagreement,

and, so help me Heaven, we will knock the Muscovites to

splinters; Razor advances under the orders of Switch."