'I had, sir,' he responded emphatically, looking me straight in the face, 'twelve harriers--harriers, I can tell you, such as you don't very often see.' (The last words he uttered in a drawl with great significance.) 'A grey hare they'd double upon in no time. After the red fox--they were devils, regular serpents. And I could boast of my greyhounds too. It's all a thing of the past now, I've no reason to lie. I used to go out shooting too. I had a dog called the Countess, a wonderful setter, with a first-rate scent--she took everything. Sometimes I'd go to a marsh and call "Seek." If she refused, you might go with a dozen dogs, and you'd find nothing. But when she was after anything, it was a sight to see her. And in the house so well-bred. If you gave her bread with your left hand and said, "A Jew's tasted it," she wouldn't touch it; but give it with your right and say, "The young lady's had some," and she'd take it and eat it at once. I had a pup of hers--capital pup he was, and I meant to bring him with me to Moscow, but a friend asked me for him, together with a gun; he said, "In Moscow you'll have other things to think of." I gave him the pup and the gun; and so, you know, it stayed there.' 'But you might go shooting in Moscow.' 'No, what would be the use? I didn't know when to pull myself up, so now I must grin and bear it. But there, kindly tell me rather about the living in Moscow--is it dear?' 'No, not very.' 'Not very.... And tell me, please, are there any gypsies in Moscow?' 'What sort of gypsies?' 'Why, such as hang about fairs?' 'Yes, there are in Moscow....' 'Well, that's good news. I like gypsies, damn my soul! I like 'em....' And there was a gleam of reckless merriment in Piotr Petrovitch's eyes. But suddenly he turned round on the bench, then seemed to ponder, dropped his eyes, and held out his empty glass to me. 'Give me some of your rum,' he said.' 'But the tea's all finished.' 'Never mind, as it is, without tea... Ah--h!' Karataev laid his head in his hands and leaned his elbows on the table. I looked at him without speaking, and although I was expecting the sentimental exclamations, possibly even the tears of which the inebriate are so lavish, yet when he raised his head, I was, I must own, impressed by the profoundly mournful expression of his face. 'What's wrong with you?' 'Nothing.... I was thinking of old times. An anecdote that... I would tell it you, but I am ashamed to trouble you....' 'What nonsense!' 'Yes,' he went on with a sigh:--'there are cases... like mine, for instance. Well, if you like, I will tell you. Though really I don't know....' 'Do tell me, dear Piotr Petrovitch.' 'Very well, though it's a... Well, do you see,' he began; 'but, upon my word, I don't know.' 'Come, that's enough, dear Piotr Petrovitch.'