hands in his pockets, his legs excessively wide apart; he was slightly swaying backwards and forwards. His face was hot, and his eyes were sparkling.
'Hullo, Onisim,' he faltered amiably, articulating the consonants very indistinctly and thickly: 'hullo, my lad. Ah, my lad, when you weren't here . . . he, he, he . . .' Pyetushkov laughed and made a sudden duck forward with his nose. 'Yes, it's an accomplished fact, he, he, he. . . However,' he added, trying to assume a dignified air, 'I'm all right.' He tried to lift his foot, but almost fell over, and to preserve his dignity pronounced in a deep bass, 'Boy, bring my pipe!'
Onisim gazed in astonishment at his master, glanced round. . . . In the window stood an empty dark-green bottle, with the inscription: 'Best Jamaica rum.'
'I've been drinking, my lad, that's all,' Pyetushkov went on. 'I've been and taken it. I've been drinking, and that's all about it. And where've you been? Tell us . . . don't be shy . . . tell us. You're a good hand at a tale.'
'Ivan Afanasiitch, mercy on us!' wailed Onisim.
'To be sure. To be sure I will,' replied Pyetushkov with a vague wave of his hand. 'I'll have mercy on you, and forgive you. I forgive every one, I forgive you, and Vassilissa I forgive, and every one, every one. Yes, my
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