My Fílka bent down, and began to pass the candle about under the bed.
“Why,”—says he,—“there’s no dog here.”
I bent down also; in fact there was no dog.... Here was a marvel! I turned my eyes on Fílka: he was smiling.
“Fool,”—said I to him,—“what art thou grinning about? When thou didst open the door the dog probably took and sneaked out into the anteroom. But thou, gaper, didst notice nothing, because thou art eternally asleep. Can it be that thou thinkest I am drunk?”
He attempted to reply, but I drove him out, curled myself up in a ring, and heard nothing more that night.
But on the following night—just imagine!—the same thing was repeated. No sooner had I blown out the light than it began to claw and flap its ears. Again I summoned Fílka, again he looked under the bed—again nothing! I sent him away, blew out the light—phew, damn it! there was the dog still. And a dog it certainly was: I could hear it breathing and rummaging in its hair with its teeth in search of fleas so plainly!
“Fílka!”—says I,—“come hither without a light!”... He entered.... “Well, now,”—says I, “dost thou hear?...”
“I do,”—said he. I could not see him, but I felt that the fellow was quailing.
“What dost thou make of it?”—said I.
“What dost thou command me to make of it, Porfíry Kapítonitch?... ’Tis an instigation of the Evil One!”