'There,' commented Anpadist, 'he will eat him up now; he'll simply eat the man up. The bailiff will beat him now. Such a poor, unlucky chap, come to think of it! And what's his offence?... He had some wrangle in meeting with him, the agent, and he lost all patience, I suppose, and of course he wouldn't stand it.... A great matter, truly, to make so much of! So he began pecking at him, Antip. Now he'll eat him up altogether. You see, he's such a dog. Such a cur--God forgive my transgressions!--he knows whom to fall upon. The old men that are a bit richer, or've more children, he doesn't touch, the red-headed devil! but there's all the difference here! Why he's sent Antip's sons for recruits out of turn, the heartless ruffian, the cur! God forgive my transgressions!' We went on our way. XI THE COUNTING-HOUSE It was autumn. For some hours I had been strolling across country with my gun, and should probably not have returned till evening to the tavern on the Kursk high-road where my three-horse trap was awaiting me, had not an exceedingly fine and persistent rain, which had worried me all day with the obstinacy and ruthlessness of some old maiden lady, driven me at last to seek at least a temporary shelter somewhere in the neighbourhood. While I was still deliberating in which direction to go, my eye suddenly fell on a low shanty near a field sown with peas. I went up to the shanty, glanced under the thatched roof, and saw an old man so infirm that he reminded me at once of the dying goat Robinson Crusoe found in some cave on his island. The old man was squatting on his heels, his little dim eyes half-closed, while hurriedly, but carefully, like a hare (the poor fellow had not a single tooth), he munched a dry, hard pea, incessantly rolling it from side to side. He was so absorbed in this occupation that he did not notice my entrance. 'Grandfather! hey, grandfather!' said I. He ceased munching, lifted his eyebrows high, and with an effort opened his eyes. 'What?' he mumbled in a broken voice. 'Where is there a village near?' I asked. The old man fell to munching again. He had not heard me. I repeated my question louder than before. 'A village?... But what do you want?' 'Why, shelter from the rain.' 'What?' 'Shelter from the rain.' 'Ah!' (He scratched his sunburnt neck.) 'Well, now, you go,' he said suddenly, waving his hands indefinitely, 'so ... as you go by the copse--see, as you go--there'll be a road; you pass it by, and keep right on to the right; keep right on, keep right on, keep right on.... Well, there will be Ananyevo. Or else you'd go to Sitovka.' I followed the old man with difficulty. His moustaches muffled his voice, and his tongue too did not obey him readily. 'Where are you from?' I asked him. 'What?' 'Where are you from?' 'Ananyevo.' 'What are you doing here?' 'I'm watchman.' 'Why, what are you watching?' 'The peas.' I could not help smiling.