“How, what am I afraid of, little father Kirila Petrovitch? And Doubrovsky? I might have fallen into his clutches. He is a young man who never misses his aim—he lets nobody off; and I am afraid he would have flayed me twice over, had he got hold of me.”
“Why, brother, such a distinction?”
“Why, father Kirila Petrovitch? Have you forgotten the lawsuit of the late Andrei Gavrilovitch? Was it not I who, to please you, that is to say, according to conscience and justice, showed that Doubrovsky held possession of Kistenevka without having any right to it, and solely through your condescension; and did not the deceased—God rest his soul!—vow that he would settle with me in his own way, and might not the son keep his father’s word? Hitherto the Lord has been merciful to me. Up to the present they have only plundered one of my barns, but one of these days they may find their way to the manor-house.”
“Where they would find a rich booty,” observed Kirila Petrovitch: “I have no doubt that the little red cash-box is as full as it can be.”
“Not so, father Kirila Petrovitch; there was a time when it was full, but now it is perfectly empty.”
“Don’t tell lies, Anton Pafnoutitch. We know you. Where do you spend money? At home you live like a pig, you never receive anybody, and you fleece your peasants. You do nothing with your money but hoard it up.”
“You are only joking, father Kirila Petrovitch,” murmured Anton Pafnoutitch, smiling; “but I swear to you that we are ruined,” and Anton Pafnoutitch swallowed his host’s joke with a greasy piece of fish pasty.
Kirila Petrovitch left him and turned to the new sheriff, who was his guest for the first time and who was sitting at the other end of the table, near the tutor.
“Well, Mr. Sheriff, give us a proof of your cleverness: catch Doubrovsky for us.”
The sheriff looked disconcerted, bowed, smiled, stammered, and said at last: