Tartar or Cossack, squire or soldiers' songs, any kind you please.' Olenin looked at him again, smiled, and went on writing.
That smile emboldened the old man.
'Come, leave off, my lad, leave off!' he said with sudden firmness.
'Well, perhaps I will.' 'Come, people have injured you but leave them alone, spit at them! Come, what's the use of writing and writing, what's the good ?' And he tried to mimic Olenin by tapping the floor with his thick fingers, and then twisted his big face to express contempt.
'What's the good of writing quibbles.

Better have a spree and show you're a man!' No other conception of writing found place in his head except that of legal chicanery.
Olenin burst out laughing and so did Eroshka.

Then, jumping up from the floor, the latter began to show off his skill on the balalayka and to sing Tartar songs.
'Why write, my good fellow! You'd better listen to what I'll sing to you.

When you're dead you won't hear any more songs.

Make merry now!' First he sang a song of his own composing accompanied by a dance: 'Ah, dee, dee, dee, dee, dee, dim, Say where did they last see him?
In a booth, at the fair, He was selling pins, there.' Then he sang a song he had learnt from his former sergeant-major: 'Deep I fell in love on Monday, Tuesday nothing did but sigh, Wednesday I popped the question, Thursday waited her reply.