With Tyapa's help
they placed him on a wide board. He was shivering all over.
"We worked on the same paper . . . he is very unlucky. . . . I
said, 'Stay in my house, you are not in my way,' . . . but he
begged me to send him 'home.' He was so excited about it that I
brought him here, thinking it might do him good. . . Home! This
is it, isn't it?"
"Do you suppose he has a home anywhere else?" asked Kuvalda,
roughly, looking at his friend. "Tyapa, fetch me some cold
water."
"I fancy I am of no more use," remarked the man in some
confusion. The Captain looked at him critically. His clothes
were rather shiny, and tightly buttoned up to his chin. His
trousers were frayed, his hat almost yellow with age and crumpled
like his lean and hungry face.
"No, you are not necessary! We have plenty like you here," said
the Captain, turning away.
"Then, good-bye!" The man went to the door, and said quietly
from there, "If anything happens . . . let me know in the
publishing office. . . My name is Rijoff. I might write a short
obituary. . . You see he was an active member of the Press.
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