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 CHAPTER XXVIII

A POET

< FTER Madam Gritsatsuev had left the inhos/X pitable newspaper office the humblest people JL X- who worked in that building began to come in again for their day’s work. Messengers, shorthand typists, telephone operators, and office boys streamed into the various offices. Nikifor Lyapis moved about among them. He was a very young man with a curly head like a lamb and an impudent face. He had come into the building through the back way, for he felt quite at home there and knew all the short-cuts that led to the cashier’s desk. He went up to an automatic machine, put a coin in, and took out a sandwich, a glass sealed in paper, and a cream bun. After this he had a drink of tea, and then went to have a look round. He wandered into the offices of a hunters’ journal Gerasim and Mumu, but his friend was out, so he moved on to the offices of the Hygroscopic Messenger, a weekly journal through which pharmaceutical workers kept in touch with the outside world. ‘ Good morning,’ said Nikifor. ' I’ve written some wonderful poetry.’ ‘ What about ? ’ asked the editor of the literary page. ‘ Don’t you know that this is a hygroscopic journal ? The poet looked at the floor, then threw his head back and said in a sonorous voice : ‘ A ballad on gangrene. ‘ Interesting ! ’ remarked the editor. It s high time we spread prophylactic ideas in popular form. Lyapis immediately began to declaim : ‘ Gavrila suffered from gangrene. It was gangrene that laid him low. . . .’ 187