“What can that matter to you? You see when they don’t know how to make use of their hands that they are not accustomed to be without servants. Why should I not serve him, buffoon with a hairy snout?”
“Who has a hairy snout?”
“You!”
“I have a hairy snout?”
“Yes; certainly you have.”
“You are a nice fellow, you are. If I have a hairy snout, you have a face like a crow’s egg.”
“Hairy snout! The merciful Lord has settled your account. You would do much better to keep quiet and die.”
“Why? I would rather prostrate myself before a boot than before a slipper. My father never prostrated himself, and never made me do so.”
He would have continued, but an attack of coughing convulsed him for some minutes. He spat blood, and a cold sweat broke out on his low forehead. If his cough had not prevented him from speaking, he would have continued to declaim. One could see that from his look; but in his powerlessness he could only move his hand, the result of which was that Tchekounoff spoke no more about the matter.