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DIAMONDS TO SIT ON

' Bonjour,’ said the reporter. ' I think I have met you before. Ah ! yes, I remember, of course—you’re the artist from the Scriabin.’ Bender put his hand on his heart and made a deep bow. ‘But let me see,’ said the reporter, who had an amazing memory. ‘ Weren’t you knocked down by a horse in Moscow ? It was in Sverdlov Square I thmk.’ I was, said Bender, ‘ and according to your clever account I escaped with a fright.’ ‘ Are you still an artist ? ’ No, I’m on holiday at present.’ ' Walking ? ’ ' Yes, walking. Experts maintain, you know, that It IS simply absurd to travel by car along the Georgian military road.’ Not always absurd, my dear friend—not always. Now we, for instance, are not travelling so absurdly, for the cars, as you can see for yourself, are our own. 1 repeat our own, collectively owned. A direct route from Moscow to Tiflis—hardly any petrol required, ^eat comfort, speed and well-sprung seats. Quite European.’ ‘ Where have you got them from ? ’ asked Bender enviously. ‘ Have you won a hundred thousand ? ’ Not a hundred, but we’ve won fifty thousand ’ At cards ? ’ ‘ No. We won it on our certificate which belonged to the automobile club.’ ‘ Ye^^’ you’ve bought cars with the money ? ’ Perhaps you want a guide ? I know of a young man who is very sober and most reliable.’ I don’t think we do.’ ‘ You don’t ? ’ ‘ don’t want an artist either ! ’ Well, if that’s so, give me ten roubles.’