The fat man smoothed his hair, coughed into his hand, which was almost completely hidden in his coat-sleeve, buttoned himself, and set off with rapid strides to see the lady of the manor. In a little while the whole party trailed out after him, together with Kuprya. My old friend, the clerk on duty, was left alone. He set to work mending the pens, and dropped asleep in his chair. A few flies promptly seized the opportunity and settled on his mouth. A mosquito alighted on his forehead, and, stretching its legs out with a regular motion, slowly buried its sting into his flabby flesh. The same red head with whiskers showed itself again at the door, looked in, looked again, and then came into the office, together with the rather ugly body belonging to it. “Fedyushka! eh, Fedyushka! always asleep,” said the head. The clerk on duty opened his eyes and got up from his seat. “Nikolai Eremyitch has gone to the mistress?” “Yes, Vassily Nikolaevitch.” “Ah! ah!” thought I; “this is he, the head cashier.” The head cashier began walking about the room. He really slunk rather than walked, and altogether resembled a cat. An old black frock-coat with very narrow skirts hung about his shoulders; he kept one hand in his bosom, while the other was forever fumbling about his high, narrow horse-hair collar, and he turned his head with a certain effort. He wore noiseless kid boots, and trod very softly. “The landowner, Yagushkin, was asking for you to-day,” added the clerk on duty. “Hm, asking for me? What did he say?” “Said he’d go to Tyutyurov this evening and would wait for you. ‘I want to discuss some business with Vassily Nikolaevitch,’ said he, but what the business was he didn’t say; ‘Vassily Nikolaevitch will know,’ says he.” “Hm!” replied the head cashier, and he went up to the window. “Is Nikolai Eremyitch in the counting-house?” a loud voice was heard asking in the outer room, and a tall man, apparently angry, with an irregular but bold and expressive face, and rather clean in his dress, stepped over the threshold. “Isn’t he here?” he inquired, looking rapidly round. “Nikolai Eremyitch is with the mistress,” responded the cashier. “Tell me what you want, Pavel Andreitch; you can tell me.--What is it you want?” “What do I want? You want to know what I want?” The cashier gave a sickly nod. “I want to give him a lesson, the fat, greasy villain, the scoundrelly tell-tale!--I’ll give him a tale to tell!” Pavel flung himself into a chair. “What are you saying, Pavel Andreitch! Calm yourself.--Aren’t you ashamed? Don’t forget whom you’re talking about, Pavel Andreitch!” lisped the cashier. “Forget whom I’m talking about? What do I care for his being made head clerk? A fine person they’ve found to promote, there’s no denying that! They’ve let the goat loose in the kitchen garden, you may say!” “Hush, hush, Pavel Andreitch, hush! drop that--what rubbish are you talking?”