slippers, and a black smoking-cap. This Jew, whose name was Girshel, was continually hanging about our camp, offering his services as an agent, getting us wine, provisions, and other such trifles. He was a thinnish, red-haired, little man, marked with smallpox; he blinked incessantly with his diminutive little eyes, which were reddish too; he had a long crooked nose, and was always coughing.
He began fidgeting about me, bowing obsequiously.
'Well, what do you want?' I asked him at last.
'Oh, I only—I've only come, sir, to know if I can't be of use to your honour in some way...'
'I don't want you; you can go.'
'At your honour's service, as you desire.... I thought there might be, sir, something....'
'You bother me; go along, I tell you.'
'Certainly, sir, certainly. But your honour must permit me to congratulate you on your success....'
'Why, how did you know?'
'Oh, I know, to be sure I do.... An immense sum... immense....Oh! how immense....'
Girshel spread out his fingers and wagged his head.
'But what's the use of talking,' I said
