THE AGENT
his name?—Mr. Pyenotchkin's at all; he's not the master there; Sofron's the master.'
'You don't say so!'
'He's master, just as if it were his own. The peasants all about are in debt to him; they work for him like slaves; he'll send one off with the waggons; another, another way. . . . He harries them out of their lives.'
'They haven't much land, I suppose?'
'Not much land! He rents two hundred acres from the Hlinovsky peasants alone, and two hundred and eighty from our folks; there's more than three hundred and seventy-five acres he's got. And he doesn't only traffic in land; he does a trade in horses and stock, and pitch, and butter, and hemp, and one thing and the other. . . . He's sharp, awfully sharp, and rich too, the beast! But what's bad—he beats them. He's a brute, not a a man; a dog, I tell you; a cur, a regular cur; that's what he is!'
'How is it they don't make complaints of him?'
'I dare say, the master'd be pleased! There's no arrears; so what does he care? Yes, you'd better,' he added, after a brief pause; 'I should advise you to complain! No, he'd let you know . . . yes, you'd better try it on. . . . No, he'd let you know. . . .'
I thought of Antip, and told him what I had seen.
'There,' commented Anpadist, 'he will eat him up now; he'll simply eat the man up. The
217
