“Are you his grandfather or something?” the doorman inquired, trying to start up a conversation. Hottabych said nothing. He felt it beneath his dignity to converse with a doorkeeper.

“Would you care for a cup of tea?” the doorman continued. “The heat’s something terrible today.”

He poured a full cup of tea and, turning to hand it to the untalkative stranger, he saw to his horror that the old man had disappeared into thin air. Shaken by this impossible occurrence, the doorman gulped down the tea intended for Hottabych, poured himself a second cup, and then a third, and did not stop until there wasn’t a drop left. Then he sank into his chair and began to fan himself exhaustedly with his newspaper.

All the while, a no less unusual scene was taking place on the second floor, right above the doorman, in the classroom of 6B. The teachers, headed by the principal, Pavel Vasilyevich, sat at a table covered with a heavy cloth used for special occasions. Behind them was the blackboard, hung with various maps. Facing them were rows of solemn pupils. It was so quiet in the room that one could hear a lonely fly buzzing monotonously near the ceiling. If the pupils of 6B were always this quiet, theirs would undoubtedly be the most disciplined class in all of Moscow .

It must be noted, however, that the quiet in the classroom was not only due to the hush accompanying any examination, but also to the fact that Volka Kostylkov had been called to the board — and he was not in the room.

“Vladimir Kostylkov!” the principal repeated and looked at the quiet children in surprise.

It became still more quiet.

Then, suddenly, they heard the loud clatter of running feet in the hall outside, and at the very moment the principal called “Vladimir Kostylkov” for the third and last time, the door burst open and Volka, very much out of breath, gasped:

“Here!”

“Please come up to the board,” the principal said dryly. “We’ll speak about your being late afterwards.”