“I know I am a pampered fellow, mates,” Skuratov answered with a faint sigh, as though regretting he had been pampered and addressing himself to all in general and to no one in particular, “from my earliest childhood bred up⁠—(that is brought up, he intentionally distorted his words)⁠—on prunes and fancy bread; my brothers have a shop of their own in Moscow to this day, they sell fiddlesticks in No Man’s street, very rich shopkeepers they are.”

“And did you keep shop too?”

“I, too, carried on in various qualities. It was then, mates, I got my first two hundred⁠ ⁠…”

“You don’t mean roubles?” broke in one inquisitive listener, positively starting at the mention of so much money.

“No, my dear soul, not roubles⁠—sticks. Luka, hey, Luka!”

“To some I am Luka but to you I am Luka Kuzmitch,” a thin little sharp-nosed convict answered reluctantly.