Above the spot where the cashier dug his grimy nail in were some words scrawled in red ink.

«Pay cash. Senat, p. p. Comrade Subbotnikov.»

Further down were some more words in purple ink.

«No cash left. Smirnov, p. p. Comrade Ivanov.»

«What?» shouted Korotkov on his own, while the others, puffing and panting, descended upon the cashier.

«Oh, my goodness!» the latter howled wretchedly. «Why blame me? Oh, my godfathers!»

Stuffing the cheque hurriedly into his briefcase, he pulled on his cap, thrust the briefcase under his arm, brandished the chicken, shouting, «Stand aside!» and, breaching his way through the human wall, disappeared through the door.

The squealing white-faced registrar tottered after him on her high heels. The left heel snapped off by the door, and the registrar staggered, lifted her foot and took the shoe off.

And there she stood in the room, one foot shoeless, with the rest of them, Korotkov included.

II

PRODUCTION PRODUCE

Three days after the event described, the door of the office where Comrade Korotkov was working opened slightly, and a woman's head said spitefully:

«Go and get your pay, Comrade Korotkov.»

«What?» Korotkov exclaimed delightedly and, whistling the overture to Carmen, trotted along to a room with a notice saying «Cashier». By the cashier's desk he stopped open-mouthed. Two thick piles of yellow packets rose up to the ceiling. To avoid answering questions, the agitated and perspiring cashier had pinned up the cheque, which now bore yet another scrawl, this time in green ink.

«Pay in production produce.

«Preobrazhensky, p. p. Comrade Bogoyavlensky.»

«I agree — Kshesinsky.»

Korotkov left the cashier's office with a broad, stupid grin on his face.