"half the work is done!" he cried, jumping from the tumble-down sofa. "but the passport? there's where the shoe pinches," continued the engraver, remembering the second half of natasha's commission. "the passport—yes—that's where the shoe pinches!" he muttered to himself in perplexity, resting his head on his hands and his elbows on his knees. thinking over all kinds of possible and impossible plans, he suddenly remembered a fellow countryman of his, a shoemaker named yuzitch, who had once confessed in a moment of intoxication that "he would rather hook a watch than patch a shoe." bodlevski remembered that three months before he had met yuzitch in the street, and they had gone together to a wine shop, where, over a bottle generously ordered by yuzitch, bodlevski had lamented over the hardships of mankind in general, and his own in particular. he had not taken advantage of yuzitch's offer to introduce him to "the gang," only because he had already determined to take up one of the higher branches of the "profession," namely, to metamorphose white paper into, banknotes. when they were parting, yuzitch had warmly wrung his hand, saying:

"whenever you want anything, dear friend, or if you just want to

see me, come to the cave; come to razyeziy street and ask for the

cave, and at the cave anyone will show you where to find yuzitch.

if the barkeeper makes difficulties just whisper to him that

'secret' sent you, and he'll show you at once."

as this memory suddenly flashed into his mind, bodlevski caught up his hat and coat and hurried downstairs into the street. making his way through the narrow, dirty streets to the five points, he stopped perplexed. happily he noticed a sleepy watchman leaning leisurely against a wall, and going up to him he said:

"tell me, where is the cave?"

"the what?" asked the watchman impatiently.

"the cave."

"the cave? there is no such place!" he replied, looking suspiciously at bodlevski.

bodlevski put his hand in his pocket and pulled out some small change: "if you tell me—"

the watchman brightened up. "why didn't you say so before?" he asked, grinning. "you see that house, the second from the corner? the wooden one? that's the cave."

bodlevski crossed the street in the direction indicated, and looked for the sign over the door. to his astonishment he did not find it and only later he knew that the name was strictly "unofficial," only used by members of "the gang."

opening the door cautiously, bodlevski made his way into the low, dirty barroom. behind the bar stood a tall, handsome man with an open countenance and a bald head. politely bowing to bodlevski, with his eyes rather than his head, he invited him to enter the inner room. but bodlevski explained that he wanted, not the inner room, but his friend yuzitch.

"yuzitch?" said the barkeeper thoughtfully. "we don't know anyone of that name."

"why, he's here all the time," cried bodlevski, in astonishment.

"don't know him," retorted the barkeeper imperturbably.

"'secret' sent me!" bodlevski suddenly exclaimed, without lowering his voice.

the barkeeper looked at him sharply and suspiciously, and then asked, with a smile:

"who did you say?"

"'secret,'" repeated bodlevski.

after a while the barkeeper said, "and did your—friend make an appointment?"

"yes, an appointment!" bodlevski replied, beginning to lose patience.

"well, take a seat in the inner room," again said the barkeeper slyly. "perhaps your friend will come in, or perhaps he is there already."

bodlevski made his way into a roomy saloon, with five windows with faded red curtains. the ceiling was black from the smoke of hanging lamps; little square tables were dotted about the floor; their covers were coarse and not above reproach on the score of cleanliness. the air was pungent with the odor of cheap tobacco and cheaper cigars. on the walls were faded oleographs of generals and archbishops, flyblown and stained.

bodlevski, little as he was used to refined surroundings, found his gorge rising. at some of the little tables furtive, impudent, tattered, sleek men were drinking.

presently yuzitch made his appearance from a low door at the other end of the room. the meeting of the two friends was cordial, especially on bodlevski's side. presently they were seated at a table, with a flask of wine between them, and bodlevski began to explain what he wanted to his friend.

as soon as he heard what was wanted, yuzitch took on an air of importance, knit his brows, hemmed, and hawed.

"i can manage it," he said finally. "yes, we can manage it. i must see one of my friends about it. but it's difficult. it will cost money."

bodlevski immediately assented. yuzitch at once rose and went over to a red-nosed individual in undress uniform, who was poring over the police news.

"friend borisovitch," said yuzitch, holding out his hand to him, "something doing!"

"fair or foul?" asked the man with the red nose.

"hang your cheek!" laughed yuzitch; "if i say it, of course it's fair." after a whispered conference, yuzitch returned to bodlevski and told him that it was all right; that the passport for natasha would be ready by the next evening. bodlevski paid him something in advance and went home triumphantly.

at eleven o'clock the next evening bodlevski once more entered the large room at the cave, now all lit up and full of an animated crowd of men and women, all with the same furtive, predatory faces. bodlevski felt nervous. he had no fears while turning white paper into banknotes in the seclusion of his own workshop, but he was full of apprehensions concerning his present guest, because several people had to be let into the secret.

yuzitch presently appeared through the same low door and, coming up to bodlevski, explained that the passport would cost twenty rubles. bodlevski paid the money over in advance, and yuzitch led him into a back room. on the table burned a tallow candle, which hardly lit up the faces of seven people who were grouped round it, one of them being the red-nosed man who was reading the police news. the seven men were all from the districts of vilna and vitebsk, and were specialists in the art of fabricating passports.

the red-nosed man approached bodlevski: "we must get acquainted with each other," he said amiably. "i have the honor to present myself!" and he bowed low; "former district secretary pacomius borisovitch prakkin. let me request you first of all to order some vodka; my hand shakes, you know," he added apologetically. "i don't want it so much for myself as for my hand—to steady it."

bodlevski gave him some change, which the red-nosed man put in his pocket and at once went to the sideboard for a flask of vodka which he had already bought. "let us give thanks! and now to business!" he said, smacking his lips after a glass of vodka.

a big, red-haired man, one of the group of seven, drew from his pocket two vials. in one was a sticky black fluid; in the other, something as clear as water.

"we are chemists, you see," the red-nosed man explained to

bodlevski with a grin, and then added:

"finch! on guard!"

a young man, who had been lolling on a couch in the corner, rose and took up a position outside the door.

"now, brothers, close up!" cried the red-nosed man, and all stood in close order, elbow to elbow, round the table. "and now we take a newspaper and have it handy on the table! that is in case," he explained to bodlevski, "any outsider happened in on us—which heaven prevent! we aren't up to anything at all; simply reading the political news! you catch on?"

"how could i help catching on?"

"very well. and now let us make everything as clear as in a looking-glass. what class do you wish to make the person belong to? the commercial or the nobility?"

"i think the nobility would be best," said bodlevski.

"certainly! at least that will give the right of free passage through all the towns and districts of the russian empire. let us see. have we not something that will suit?"

and pacomius borisovitch, opening his portfolio, filled with all kinds of passports, certificates, and papers of identification, began to turn them over, but without taking any out of the portfolio. all with the same thought—that some stranger might come in.

"ha! here's a new one! where did it come from?" he cried.

"i got it out of a new arrival," muttered the red-headed man.

"well done! just what we want! and a noble's passport, too! it is evident that heaven is helping us. see what a blessing brings!

"'this passport is issued by the district of yaroslav,'" he

continued reading, "'to the college assessor's widow, maria

solontseva, with permission to travel,'" and so on in due form.

"did you get it here?" he added, turning to the red-headed man.

"came from moscow!"

"pinched?"

"knocked on the head!" briefly replied the red-headed man.

"knocked on the head?" repeated pacomius borisovitch. "serious business. comes under sections 332 and 727 of the penal code."

"driveling again!" cried the red-headed man. "i'll teach you to talk about the penal code!" and rising deliberately, he dealt pacomius borisovitch a well-directed blow on the head, which sent him rolling into the corner. pacomius picked himself up, blinking with indignation.

"what is the meaning of such conduct?" he asked loftily.

"it means," said the red-headed man, "that if you mention the penal

code again i'll knock your head off!"

"brothers, brothers!" cried yuzitch in a good-humored tone; "we are losing precious time! forgive him!" he added, turning to pacomius. "you must forgive him!"

"i—forgive him," answered pacomius, but the light in his eye showed that he was deeply offended.

"well," he went on, addressing bodlevski, "will it suit you to have the person pass as maria solontseva, widow of a college assessor?"