"I'm not kicking you, Ardalyon Borisitch, I'm shaking hands with you. It's possible that in your village they kick with their hands, but in my village they kick with their feet. And even then it is not people but, if I may say so, ponies." "You'll butt me yet," growled Peredonov. Volodin was offended and said in a trembling voice: "I haven't grown any horns yet, Ardalyon Borisitch, but it's very likely you'll grow them before I do." "You've got a long tongue that babbles nonsense," said Peredonov angrily. "If that's your idea of me, Ardalyon Borisitch," said Volodin quickly, "then I'll be silent." And his face bore an injured expression and his lips protruded; nevertheless he walked at Peredonov's side; he had not yet dined and he counted on having dinner with Peredonov: luckily they had invited him that morning. An important piece of news awaited Peredonov at home. While still in the hall it was easy to guess that something unusual had happened--a bustling could be heard in the rooms mingled with frightful exclamations. Peredonov at once thought that the dinner was not ready, and that when they saw him coming they had been frightened and were now hurrying. It was pleasant to him to know that they were afraid of him! But it turned out to be quite another matter. Varvara ran out into the hall and shouted: "The cat's been sent back!" In her excitement she did not notice Volodin at first. As usual, her dress was untidy--a greasy blouse over a grey dirty skirt and worn-out house slippers. Her hair was uncombed and tousled. She said to Peredonov excitedly: "It's Irishka again! She's played us a new trick out of spite. She sent a boy here again to throw the cat in here--and the cat has rattles on its tail and they keep on rattling. The cat has got under the sofa and won't come out." Peredonov felt terribly alarmed. "What's to be done now?" he asked. "Pavel Vassilyevitch," said Varvara, "you're younger, fetch the cat out from under the sofa." "We'll fetch him out, we'll fetch him out," said Volodin with a snigger, and went into the parlour. Somehow they managed to drag out the cat from under the sofa and took the rattles off his tail. Peredonov found some thistle heads and began to stick them into the cat's fur. The cat spat violently and ran into the kitchen. Peredonov, tired of his messing about with the cat, sat down in his usual position--his elbows on the arms of the chair, his fingers interlaced, his legs crossed, his face motionless and morose. * * * * *