Page:The Jail, Experiences in 1916.pdf/73

 "About secret societies, communications with the kingdom of Serbia,—about everything that a man knows nothing whatever about" said Budi smiling. He knew my name and had read some of my work in translations.

Hedrich was bashful. He was a little infantry-man; he had thin legs, a small body, a large head, a cap thrust upon a thick shock of hair, and a cigar with a long holder in his mouth. He held it between his teeth in such a way that it stuck up in the air; and he had kindly blue eyes and honesty in his face.

Papa Declich also had blue eyes, but they were not so wide open; they were shrewd, sharp eyes which could both speak and keep silence, laugh sincerely and hurl lightning, see everything and nothing, understand and fail to understand.

Voronin did not want to sit down. He was shy. The best thing was to let him have his way. Papa Declich gave him a share of everything, Voronin thanked him with his "Spasibo", sat down in a corner on a straw mattress and ate. He was a Russian, was supposed to have been a doctor somewhere near Moscow; in some way or other he had reached our lines, and was imprisoned on suspicion of espionage. What there was in him nobody knew. He did not speak about himself, did not answer a direct question, and performed the coarsest labour in number 60. When he had arrived, he was hungry, and possessed only what he had on him. A collection was made to provide him with a shirt; he was given a good pair of trousers. Voronin took what he was given, thanked them for it, but not even by these acts of kindness could they extract a trustful word from him. And his name was not Voronin, he had received this name from the office by mistake, he had kept it, answered to it and had not corrected it in any way. Somebody discovered that he had not the slightest notion of medicine.