. . fines will have to be paid . . . or else
your lodgers will set fire to the place or rob and kill me . . .
I am powerless against them. They are not the least afraid of
the police, and they like going to prison, because they get their
food for nothing there."
"But then we will have them turned out if we come to terms with
you," promised Petunikoff.
"What shall we arrange, then?" asked Vaviloff, sadly and
seriously.
"Tell me your terms."
"Well, give me the six hundred mentioned in the claim."
"Won't you take a hundred roubles?" asked the merchant, calmly,
looking attentively at his companion, and smiling softly. "I
will not give you one rouble more," . . . he added.
After this, he took out his eye-glasses, and began cleaning them
with his handkerchief. Vaviloff looked at him sadly and
respectfully. The calm face of Petunikoff, his grey eyes and
clear complexion, every line of his thickset body betokened
self-confidence and a well-balanced mind. Vaviloff also liked
Petunikoff's straightforward manner of addressing him without any
pretensions, as if he were his own brother, though Vaviloff
understood well enough that he was his superior, he being only a
soldier.
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