THE AGENT
think you've nothing to do but drink, and lie on the stove, and let steady peasants answer for you.'
'And he's an impudent fellow, too,' the agent threw in.
'That's sure to be so; it's always the way; I've noticed it more than once. The whole year round, he's drinking and abusive, and then he falls at one's feet.'
'Your honour, Arkady Pavlitch,' the old man began despairingly, 'have pity, protect us; when have I been impudent? Before God Almighty, I swear it was beyond my strength. Sofron Yakovlitch has taken a dislike to me; for some reason he dislikes me—God be his judge! He will ruin me utterly, your honour. . . . The last . . . here . . . the last boy . . . and him he. . . .' (A tear glistened in the old man's wrinkled yellow eyes). 'Have pity, gracious lord, defend us!'
'And it's not us only,' the young peasant began. . . .
Arkady Pavlitch flew into a rage at once.
'And who asked your opinion, hey? Till you're spoken to, hold your tongue. . . . What's the meaning of it? Silence, I tell you, silence! . . . Why, upon my word, this is simply mutiny! No, my friend, I don't advise you to mutiny on my domain . . . on my . . . (Arkady Pavlitch stepped forward, but probably recollected my presence, turned round, and put his hands in his pockets . . .) 'Je vous demande bien pardon, mon
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