A SPORTSMAN'S SKETCHES
turned stoker; Kuprya's turned a stoker!' But the man in the coat with the plush collar did not pay the slightest attention to the uproar made by his companions, and was not in the least out of countenance. With measured steps he went up to the stove, flung down his load, straightened himself, took out of his tail-pocket a snuff-box, and with round eyes began helping himself to a pinch of dry trefoil mixed with ashes. At the entrance of this noisy party the fat man had at first knitted his brows and risen from his seat, but, seeing what it was, he smiled, and only told them not to shout. 'There's a sportsman,' said he, 'asleep in the next room.' 'What sort of sportsman?' two of them asked with one voice.
'A gentleman.'
'Ah!'
'Let them make a row,' said the man with the plush collar, waving his arms; 'what do I care, so long as they don't touch me? They've turned me into a stoker. . . .'
'A stoker! a stoker!' the others put in gleefully.
'It's the mistress's orders,' he went on, with a shrug of his shoulders; 'but just you wait a bit . . . they'll turn you into swineherds yet. But I've been a tailor, and a good tailor too, learnt my trade in the best house in Moscow, and worked for generals . . . and nobody can take that from me. And what have you to boast of? . . . What? you're a pack of idlers, not worth your salt;
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