THE COUNTING-HOUSE
'Stand off!' bawled the clerk. 'He tried to poison me! Do you understand that?'
'That's very likely. . . . Listen, Nikolai Eremyitch,' Pavel began in despairing accents. 'For the last time, I beg you. . . You force me to it—I can't stand it any longer. Let us alone, do you hear? or else, by God, it'll go ill with one or other of us—I mean with you!'
The fat man flew into a rage.
'I'm not afraid of you!' he shouted; 'do you hear, milksop? I got the better of your father; I broke his horns—a warning to you; take care!'
'Don't talk of my father, Nikolai Eremyitch.'
'Get away! who are you to give me orders?'
'I tell you, don't talk of him!'
'And I tell you, don't forget yourself. . . . However necessary you think yourself, if our lady has a choice between us, it's not you'll be kept, my dear! None's allowed to mutiny, mind!' (Pavel was shaking with fury.) 'As for the wench, Tatyana, she deserves. . . wait a bit, she'll get something worse!'
Pavel dashed forward with uplifted fists, and the clerk rolled heavily on the floor.
'Handcuff him, handcuff him,' groaned Nikolai Eremyitch. . . .
I won't take upon myself to describe the end of this scene; I fear I have wounded the reader's delicate susceptibilities as it is.
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