Zakhár went out, but in the course of a few minutes he returned with a greasy copy-book all scribbled over, and some scraps of paper. "Here, if you want to write—and by the way, be kind enough to verify these accounts: we need the money to pay them." "What accounts? what money?" demanded Ílya Ílyitch with a show of temper. "From the butcher, from the grocer, from the laundress, from the baker; they all are clamoring for money."[Pg 6547] "Nothing but bother about money," growled Ílya Ílyitch. "But why didn't you give them to me one at a time instead of all at once?" "You see you always kept putting me off: 'To-morrow,' always 'To-morrow.'" "Well, why shouldn't we put them off till to-morrow now?" "No! they are dunning you; they won't give any longer credit. To-morrow's the first of the month." "Akh!" cried Oblómof in vexation, "new bother! Well, why are you standing there? Put them on the table. I will get up immediately, take my bath, and look them over," said Ílya Ílyitch. "Is it all ready for my bath?" "What do you mean—'ready'?" said Zakhár. "Well, now—" With a groan he started to make the preliminary movement of getting up. "I forgot to tell you," began Zakhár, "while you were still asleep the manager sent word by the dvórnik that it was imperatively necessary that you vacate the apartment: it is wanted." "Well, what of that? If the apartment is wanted of course we will move out. Why do you bother me with it? This is the third time you have spoken to me about it." "They bother me about it also." "Tell them that we will move out." "He says, 'For a month you have been promising,' says he, 'and still you don't move out,' says he: 'we'll report the matter to the police.'" "Let him report," cried Oblómof resolutely: "we will move out as soon as it is a little warmer, in the course of three weeks." "Three weeks, indeed! The manager says that the workmen are coming in a fortnight: everything is to be torn out. 'Move,' says he, 'either to-morrow or day after to-morrow.'" "Eh—eh—eh—that's too short notice: to-morrow? See here, what next? How would this minute suit? But don't you dare speak a word to me about apartments. I have already told you that once, and here you are again. Do you hear?" "But what shall I do?" demanded Zakhár. "What shall you do? Now how is he going to get rid of me?" replied Ílya Ílyitch. "He makes me responsible! How does it concern me? Don't you trouble me any further, but [Pg 6548] make any arrangements you please, only so that we don't have to move yet. Can't you do your best for your master?" "But Ílya Ílyitch, little father [bátiushka], what arrangements shall I make?" began Zakhár in a hoarse whisper. "The house is not mine; how can we help being driven out of the place if they resort to force? If only the house were mine, then I would with the greatest pleasure—"