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thundered like an ancient prophet and his hair shone like a silver halo.
        His words sounded to the sleepy dog like a dull subterranean rumble. At first he dreamed uneasily that the owl with its stupid yellow eyes had hopped off its branch, then he dreamed about the vile face of that cook in his dirty white cap, then of Philip Philipovich's dashing moustaches sharply lit by electric light from the lampshade. The dreamy sleigh-ride came to an end as the mangled piece of roast beef, floating in gravy, stewed away in the dog's stomach.
        He could earn plenty of money by talking at political meetings, the dog thought sleepily. That was a great speech. Still, he's rolling in money anyway.
        'A policeman!' shouted Philip Philipovich. 'A policeman!'
    Policeman? Ggrrr ... - something snapped inside the dog's brain.
    'Yes, a policeman! Nothing else will do. Doesn't matter whether he wears a number or a red
    cap. A policeman should be posted alongside every person in the country with the job of moderating the vocal outbursts of our honest citizenry. You talk about ruin. I tell you, doctor, that nothing will change for the better in this house, or in any other house for that matter, until you can make these people stop talking claptrap! As soon as they put an end to this mad chorus the situation will automatically change for the better.'
        'You sound like a counter-revolutionary, Philip Philipovich,' said the doctor jokingly. 'I hope to God nobody hears you.'
        'I'm doing no harm,' Philip Philipovich objected heatedly. 'Nothing counter-revolutionary in all that. Incidentally, that's a word I simply can't tolerate. What the devil is it supposed to mean, anyway? Nobody knows. That's why I say there's nothing counter-revolutionary in what I say. It's full of sound sense and a lifetime of experience.'
        At this point Philip Philipovich pulled the end of his luxurious napkin out of his collar. Crumpling it up he laid it beside his unfinished glass of wine. Bormenthal at once rose and thanked his host.
        'Just a minute, doctor,' Philip Philipovich stopped him and took a wallet out of his hip pocket. He frowned, counted out some white 10-rouble notes and handed them to the doctor, saying, 'You are due for 40 roubles today, Ivan Arnoldovich. There you are.'
        Still in slight pain from his dog-bite, the doctor thanked him and blushed as he stuffed the money into his coat pocket.
        'Do you need me this evening, Philip Philipovich?' he enquired.
        'No thanks, my dear fellow. We shan't be doing anything this evening. For one thing the rabbit has died and for another Aida is on at the Bolshoi this evening. It's a long time since I heard it. I love it ... Do you remember that duet? Pom-pom-ti-pom . . .'
        'How do you find time for it, Philip Philipovich?' asked the doctor with awe.
        'One can find time for everything if one is never in a hurry,' explained his host didactically. 'Of course if I started going to meetings and carolling like a nightingale all day long, I'd never find time to go anywhere' - the repeater in Philip Philipovich's pocket struck its celestial chimes as he pressed the button - 'It starts at nine. I'll go in time for the second act. I believe in the division of labour. The Bolshoi's job is to sing, mine's to operate. That's how things should be. Then there'd be none of this "ruin" . . . Look, Ivan Arnoldovich, you must go and take a careful look: as soon as he's properly dead, take him off the table, put him straight into nutritive fluid and bring him to me!'
        'Don't worry, Philip Philipovich, the pathologist has promised me.'
        'Excellent. Meanwhile, we'll examine this neurotic street arab of ours and stitch him up. I want his flank to heal . . .'
        He's worrying about me, thought the dog, good for him. Now I know what he is. He's the wizard, the magician, the sorcerer out of those dogs' fairy tales ... I can't have dreamed