'Really!--how old are you?' 'God knows.' 'Your sight's failing, I expect.' 'What?' 'Your sight's failing, I daresay?' 'Yes, it's failing. At times I can hear nothing.' 'Then how can you be a watchman, eh?' 'Oh, my elders know about that.' 'Elders!' I thought, and I gazed not without compassion at the poor old man. He fumbled about, pulled out of his bosom a bit of coarse bread, and began sucking it like a child, with difficulty moving his sunken cheeks. I walked in the direction of the copse, turned to the right, kept on, kept right on as the old man had advised me, and at last got to a large village with a stone church in the new style, _i.e._ with columns, and a spacious manor-house, also with columns. While still some way off I noticed through the fine network of falling rain a cottage with a deal roof, and two chimneys, higher than the others, in all probability the dwelling of the village elder; and towards it I bent my steps in the hope of finding, in this cottage, a samovar, tea, sugar, and some not absolutely sour cream. Escorted by my half-frozen dog, I went up the steps into the outer room, opened the door, and instead of the usual appurtenances of a cottage, I saw several tables, heaped up with papers, two red cupboards, bespattered inkstands, pewter boxes of blotting sand weighing half a hundred-weight, long penholders, and so on. At one of the tables was sitting a young man of twenty with a swollen, sickly face, diminutive eyes, a greasy-looking forehead, and long straggling locks of hair. He was dressed, as one would expect, in a grey nankin coat, shiny with wear at the waist and the collar. 'What do you want?' he asked me, flinging his head up like a horse taken unexpectedly by the nose. 'Does the bailiff live here... or--' 'This is the principal office of the manor,' he interrupted. 'I'm the clerk on duty.... Didn't you see the sign-board? That's what it was put up for.' 'Where could I dry my clothes here? Is there a samovar anywhere in the village?' 'Samovars, of course,' replied the young man in the grey coat with dignity; 'go to Father Timofey's, or to the servants' cottage, or else to Nazar Tarasitch, or to Agrafena, the poultry-woman.' 'Who are you talking to, you blockhead? Can't you let me sleep, dummy!' shouted a voice from the next room. 'Here's a gentleman's come in to ask where he can dry himself.' 'What sort of a gentleman?' 'I don't know. With a dog and a gun.' A bedstead creaked in the next room. The door opened, and there came in a stout, short man of fifty, with a bull neck, goggle-eyes, extraordinarily round cheeks, and his whole face positively shining with sleekness. 'What is it you wish?' he asked me. 'To dry my things.' 'There's no place here.' 'I didn't know this was the counting-house; I am willing, though, to pay...'