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 comes up to me and asks: "Where's all the firewood going? What are you doing with it?" "Firewood?" said I. "What d'you think I'm doing with the firewood? I can't eat it, now can I?' Comrade Krasilnikov did what he could with the place, but it was no good. If it wasn't the damp, it was the cold.  Then the musical circle hadn't a room to practise in,  and the dramatic society simply froze at their rehearsals. They asked for a five years' credit to build a new club,  but I don't think anything came of it. And then in  the spring Comrade Krasilnikov bought a chair for the  stage. It was a good chair, a nice soft one.

Hippolyte leant forward and listened intently. He was almost fainting, and the old man chuckled with delight as he told him how one day he was standing on the chair to take an electric bulb out of a lamp when he slipped and fell.

'Yes,' said the old man, 'and as I fell I ripped the chair seat—the cover I mean. And what d' you think I saw? Little bits of glass came pouring out of the hole and white beads on a thread!'

'Beads?' Hippolyte repeated.

'Yes, beads,' said the old man; 'and I looked and I saw some little boxes. I didn't touch them. I went straight to Comrade Krasilnikov, and I told him what I'd found. And then I had to report about it to the committee. I didn't touch the little boxes. No, not I! Just as well I didn't! What do you think? Id found a treasure that had been hidden by a bourgeois!'

'Where is the treasure?' shouted Hippolyte.

'Where? Where?' repeated the old man. 'Ah! you need to have some imagination, my dear man. The treasure is here!'

'Where? Where?' asked Hippolyte excitedly.

'Here in front of you!' shouted the old man, feeling delighted at the effect of his story. 'Here in front of you! Polish your glasses, my friend, and take a good look at it! A club has been built out of it. Don't