Peredonov took from its box his official cap with its badge. He decided that henceforth he would wear no other hat. It was all very well for the Head-Master to wear any hat he liked—he stood well with the authorities, but Peredonov was still seeking his inspector's position; it was not enough for him to depend upon patrons, he must do something himself to show his mettle. Already, several days earlier, before he had begun to go about among the authorities, he had thought of this, but somehow his hat only came to his hand. Now Peredonov arranged things differently: he threw his hat on top of the stove—to make certain that he would not pick it up by accident.
Varvara was not at home; Klavdia was washing the floors. Peredonov went into the kitchen to wash his hands. He saw on the table there a roll of blue paper from which a few raisins had fallen. This was a pound of raisins bought for the tea-cake to be baked at home. Peredonov began to eat the raisins as they were, unwashed and unstoned. He quickly and avidly ate the whole pound as he stood at the table, keeping one eye on the door so that Klavdia should not surprise him. Then he carefully folded up the thick, blue paper and carried it into the front room under his coat and there put it in the pocket of his overcoat so that he could throw it away in the street and thus get rid of all traces of it.
He walked out. Soon Klavdia went to get the raisins, and then began to hunt for them unsuccessfully in a frightened way. Varvara returned and discovered the loss of the raisins and began to abuse Klavdia: she was certain that Klavdia had eaten them.
It was quiet in the streets with a slight breeze. There was only an occasional cloud. The pools were drying up. There was a pale glow in the sky. But Peredonov's soul was heavily oppressed.
On the way he went into the tailor's in order to hurry along the new uniform he had ordered three days ago.
As he walked past the church he took his hat off and crossed himself three times elaborately and sweepingly, so that everyone should see how the future inspector walked past the church. He was not accustomed to do it before, but now he had to be on the look-out. It was possible that some spy was walking stealthily behind or was hiding around a corner or behind a tree and was watching him.
The Commissioner of Police lived in a remote street of the town. In the gates, which were flung wide open, Peredonov met a police constable—a meeting which now always made Peredonov feel dejected. There were several muzhiks visible in the courtyard, but not the kind one meets everywhere—these were an unusually orderly and quiet sort. The courtyard was dirty. Carts stood about covered with matting.
In the dark corridor Peredonov met another police constable, a small, meagre man of capable yet depressed appearance. He stood motionless and held under his arm a book in black leather binding. A ragged, barefoot girl ran out from a side door and helped Peredonov off with his coat; as she led him into the drawing-room, she said:
"Please come in, Semyon Grigoryevitch will be here soon."