Doútlof smacked his hand again, and began praying for God’s blessing. They woke up the volunteer, who was still sleeping after yesterday’s carouse, thought fit to examine him, and went with him to the offices of the Administration.

The volunteer was merry. He demanded rum to get screwed on, for which Doútlof gave him some money, and only when they came into the vestibule did he become abashed. For a long time they stood in the anteroom, the old master in his full blue cloak, and the volunteer in a short fur coat, his eyebrows raised and his eyes staring. For a long time they whispered, asked to be allowed to go somewhere or other, looked for somebody or other, and for some reason took off their caps and bowed to every scrivener they met, and meditatively listened to the decisions read out by a scrivener whom the master knew. All hope of getting the business done that day began to vanish, and the volunteer was growing more cheerful and unconstrained again, when Doútlof saw Egór Miháylovitch, seized on him at once, and began to beg and bow to him.