A moment later, Volka, holding Hottabych’s arm, emerged from the house. The old man was magnificent in a new linen suit, an embroidered Ukrainian shirt, and a straw boater. The only things he had refused to change, complaining of three thousand-year-old corns, were his slippers. He remained in his pink slippers with the upturned toes, which, in times gone by, would have probably driven the most stylish young man at the Court of Caliph Harun al Rashid out of his mind with envy.

When Volka and a transformed Hottabych approached the entrance of Moscow Secondary School No. 245 the old man looked at himself coyly in the glass door and remained quite pleased with what he saw.

The elderly doorman, who was sedately reading his paper, put it aside with pleasure at the sight of Volka and his companion. It was hot and the doorman felt like talking to someone.

Skipping several steps at a time, Volka dashed upstairs. The corridors were quiet and empty, a true and sad sign that the examination had begun and that he was late.

“And where are you going?” the doorman asked Hottabych good-naturedly as he was about to follow his young friend in.

“He’s come to see the principal,” Volka shouted from the top of the stairs.

“You won’t be able to see him now. He’s at an examination. Won’t you please come by again later on in the day?”

Hottabych frowned angrily.

“If I be permitted to, O respected old man, I would prefer to wait for him here.” Then he shouted to Volka, “Hurry to your classroom, O Volka ibn Alyosha! I’m certain that you’ll astound your teachers and your comrades with your great knowledge!”