But Ivan Nikiforovitch dropped into a chair, and could utter no word beyond prolonged oh’s. Finally, in a faint and barely audible voice from fatigue, he exclaimed, “Wouldn’t you like some?” and drawing his snuff-box from his pocket, added, “Help yourself, if you please.”
“Very glad to see you,” replied the judge; “but I cannot conceive what made you put yourself to so much trouble, and favour us with so unexpected an honour.”
“A plaint!” Ivan Nikiforovitch managed to ejaculate.
“A plaint? What plaint?”
“A complaint...” here his asthma entailed a prolonged pause—“Oh! a complaint against that rascal—Ivan Ivanovitch Pererepenko!”
“And you too! Such particular friends! A complaint against such a benevolent man?”
“He’s Satan himself!” ejaculated Ivan Nikiforovitch abruptly.
The judge crossed himself.
“Take my plaint, and read it.”
“There is nothing to be done. Read it, Taras Tikhonovitch,” said the judge, turning to the secretary with an expression of displeasure, which caused his nose to sniff at his upper lip, which generally occurred only as a sign of great enjoyment. This independence on the part of his nose caused the judge still greater vexation. He pulled out his handkerchief, and rubbed off all the snuff from his upper lip in order to punish it for its daring.