"
Roly-Poly at once commenced to move his eye-brows and the skin of
his scalp and began to speak in verse:
"Dear cigarette, my secret mate,
How can I help loving thee?
Not through mere whim, prompted by fate,
All have started smoking thee."
"Why, Roly-Poly, but you are going to croak soon," said Kitty
indifferently.
"And a very simple matter, that."
"Roly-Poly, say something still funnier, in verse," begged Verka.
And at once, obediently, having placed himself in a funny pose, he
began to declaim:
"Many stars are in the bright sky,
But to count them there's no way.
Yes, the wind whispers there can be,
But there really is no way.
Blossoming now are burdocks,
Now sing out the birds called cocks."
Playing the tom-fool in this manner, Roly-Poly would sit whole
evenings and nights through in the drawing rooms of the
establishments. And through some strange psychic fellow feeling
the girls counted him almost as one of their own; occasionally
rendered him little temporary services and even bought him beer
and vodka at their expense.
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