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"Here are my saviors!" cried Petritsky, seeing them come in.

Before him stood the orderly with a tray of brandy and salted

cucumbers. "Here's Yashvin ordering me to drink a pick-me-up."

"Well, you did give it to us yesterday," said one of those who

had come in; "you didn't let us get a wink of sleep all night."

"Oh, didn't we make a pretty finish!" said Petritsky. "Volkov

climbed onto the roof and began telling us how sad he was. I

said: 'Let's have music, the funeral march!' He fairly dropped

asleep on the roof over the funeral march."

"Drink it up; you positively must drink the brandy, and then

seltzer water and a lot of lemon," said Yashvin, standing over

Petritsky like a mother making a child take medicine, "and then a

little champagne-just a small bottle."

"Come, there's some sense in that. Stop a bit, Vronsky. We'll all

have a drink."

"No; good-bye all of you. I'm not going to drink today."