'No, I'm all right,' replied Pyetushkov.
At last, one fine day (Onisim was not at home) Pyetushkov got up, rummaged in his chest of drawers, put on his cloak, though the sun was rather hot, went stealthily out into the street, and came back a quarter of an hour later. . . He carried something under his cloak. . .
Onisim was not at home. The whole morning he had been sitting in his little room, deliberating with himself, grumbling and swearing between his teeth, and, at last, he sallied off to Vassilissa. He found her in the shop. Praskovia Ivanovna was asleep on the stove, rhythmically and soothingly snoring.
'Ah, how d' ye do, Onisim Sergeitch,' began Vassilissa, with a smile; 'why haven't we seen anything of you for so long?'
'Good day.'
'Why are you so depressed? Would you like a cup of tea?'
'It's not me we're talking about now,' rejoined Onisim, in a tone of vexation.
'Why, what then?'
'What! Don't you understand me? What! What have you done to my master, come, you tell me that.'
'What I've done to him?'
'What have you done to him? . . . You go and look at him. Why, before we can look round, he'll be in a decline, or dying outright, maybe.'
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