“Where could I dry my clothes here? Is there a samovár anywhere in the village?”
“Samovars, of course,” replied the young man in the gray coat with dignity; “go to Father Timofey’s, or to the servants’ cottage, or else to Nazar Tarasitch, or to Agrafena, the poultry woman.”
“Who are you taking to, you blockhead? Can’t you let me sleep, dummy!” shouted a voice from the next room.
“Here’s a gentleman’s come in to ask where he can dry himself.”
“What sort of a gentleman?”
“I don’t know. With a dog and a gun.”
A bedstead creaked in the next room. The door opened, and there came in a stout, short man of fifty, with a bull neck, goggle eyes, extraordinarily round cheeks, and his whole face positively shining with sleekness.
“What is it you wish?” he asked me.
“To dry my things.”
“There’s no place here.”