“He bred carp in his belly, I bet, with all that water,” observed the convict with the balalaika.

“Come, do shut up! We are talking business and they.⁠ ⁠… What is this inspector, brothers?” a fussy old convict, called Martinov, who had been a hussar, anxiously inquired.

“What nonsense people talk!” observed a sceptic. “Where do they get it from and how do they fit it in? And it’s all nonsense!”

“No, it’s not nonsense,” Kulikov, who had hitherto been majestically silent, observed dogmatically. He was a man of some consequence, about fifty, with an exceptionally prepossessing countenance and disdainfully dignified manners. He was aware of the fact, and was proud of it. He was a veterinary surgeon, partly of gipsy descent, who used to earn money by doctoring horses in the town, and sold vodka in prison. He was a clever fellow and had seen a good deal. He dropped his words as though he were bestowing roubles.