“Ach, Timofyevna, why it was I, not the red beard, it was I pulled him away from you by his hair, this morning; the landlord came the day before yesterday to make a row; you’ve mixed it up.”
“Stay, I really have mixed it up. Perhaps it was you. Why dispute about trifles? What does it matter to him who it is gives him a beating?” She laughed.
“Come along!” Shatov pulled me. “The gate’s creaking, he’ll find us and beat her.”
And before we had time to run out on to the stairs we heard a drunken shout and a shower of oaths at the gate.
Shatov let me into his room and locked the door.
“You’ll have to stay a minute if you don’t want a scene. He’s squealing like a little pig, he must have stumbled over the gate again. He falls flat every time.”
We didn’t get off without a scene, however.
VI
Shatov stood at the closed door of his room and listened; suddenly he sprang back.
“He’s coming here, I knew he would,” he whispered furiously. “Now there’ll be no getting rid of him till midnight.”