"Ah, give him here!" he exclaimed, as he beheld Porphir entering the room with a small dog in his hands. Porphir was, as nearly as possible, dressed like his master, namely, he wore a similar Turkish morning coat, with the only difference, that it looked greasy.
"Bring him here—put him on the floor!"
Porphir deposited the little dog upon the floor, who stretched out his fore paws and began to smell the ground.
"Here is the dog," said Nosdrieff, laying hold of his skin and holding him up in his hand. The young dog howled forth a rather plaintive tune.
"But you have not done what I told you," said Nosdrieff, turning towards Porphir, whilst minutely examining the dog's stomach; "it seems you have neglected to clean him?"
"Pardon me, Sir, I have combed him."
"Where then do those fleas come from?"
"I can't say, your glory. They must have got upon him somehow whilst he was lying in the carriage."
"Nonsense, stuff, you idle fellow, you appear to have forgotten to do as I told you, and have given him some of your own jumpers besides. Look here, my dear Tchichikoff, just examine his ears, now just feel them with your own hand."
"Never mind, I can see without feeling: he is of a good breed," answered Tchichikoff.