"Oh! It is not that . . . I was alluding to the compensation I was to get for my ground." "But then this ground is of no use to you," said Petunikoff calmly. "But it is mine!" exclaimed the soldier. "Of course, and how much do you want for it?" "Well, say the amount stated in the document," said Vaviloff boldly. "Six hundred!" and Petunikoff smiled softly. "You are a funny fellow!" "The law is on my side . . . I can even demand two thousand. I can insist on your pulling down the building . . . and enforce it too. That is why my claim is so small. I demand that you should pull it down!" "Very well. Probably we shall do so . . . after three years, and after having dragged you into enormous law expenses. "And then, having paid up, we shall open our public-house, and you will he ruined . . . annihilated like the Swedes at Poltava. We shall see that you are ruined . . . we will take good care of that. We could have begun to arrange about a public-house now, but you see our time is valuable, and besides we are sorry for you. Why should we take the bread out of your mouth without any reason?" Egor Terentievitch looked at his guest, clenching his teeth, and felt that he was master of the situation, and held his fate in his hands. Vaviloff was full of pity for himself at having to deal with this calm, cruel figure in the checked suit. "And being such a near neighbor you might have gained a good deal by helping us, and we should have remembered it too. Even now, for instance, I should advise you to open a small shop for tobacco, you know, bread, cucumbers, and so on . . . All these are sure to be in great demand." Vaviloff listened, and being a clever man, knew that to throw himself upon the enemy's generosity was the better plan. It was as well to begin from the beginning, and, not knowing what else to do to relieve his mind, the soldier began to swear at Kuvalda. "Curses be upon your head, you drunken rascal! May the Devil take you!" "Do you mean the lawyer who composed your petition?" asked Petunikoff calmly, and added, with a sigh, "I have no doubt he would have landed you in rather an awkward fix . . . had we not taken pity upon you." "Ah!" And the angry soldier raised his hand. "There are two of them . . . One of them discovered it, the other wrote the petition, the accursed reporter!" "Why the reporter?" "He writes for the papers . . . He is one of your lodgers . . . there they all are outside . . . Clear them away, for Christ's sake! The robbers! They disturb and annoy everyone in the street. One cannot live for them . . . And they are all desperate fellows . . . You had better take care, or else they will rob or burn you. "And this reporter, who is he?" asked Petunikoff, with interest. "He? A drunkard. He was a teacher, but was dismissed. He drank everything he possessed . . . and now he writes for the papers and composes petitions. He is a very wicked man!"