A SPORTSMAN'S SKETCHES
cher,' he said, with a forced smile, dropping his voice significantly. 'Cest le mauvais côté de la médaille . . . There, that'll do, that'll do,' he went on, not looking at the peasants: 'I say . . . that'll do, you can go.' (The peasants did not rise.) 'Well, haven't I told you . . . that'll do. You can go, I tell you.'
Arkady Pavlitch turned his back on them. 'Nothing but vexation,' he muttered between his teeth, and strode with long steps homewards. Sofron followed him. The village constable opened his eyes wide, looking as if he were just about to take a tremendous leap into space. The bailiff drove a duck away from the puddle. The suppliants remained as they were a little, then looked at each other, and, without turning their heads, went on their way.
Two hours later I was at Ryabovo, and making ready to begin shooting, accompanied by Anpadist, a peasant I knew well. Pyenotchkin had been out of humour with Sofron up to the time I left. I began talking to Anpadist about the Shipilovka peasants, and Mr. Pyenotchkin, and asked him whether he knew the agent there.
'Sofron Yakovlitch? . . . ugh!'
'What sort of man is he?'
'He's not a man; he's a dog; you couldn't find another brute like him between here and Kursk.'
'Really?'
'Why, Shipilovka's hardly reckoned as—what's
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