The young man in the gray coat, the clerk on duty, laid on the old card-table a samovár, a teapot, a tumbler on a broken saucer, a jug of cream, and a bunch of Bolhovo biscuit rings. The fat man went out.
“What is he?” I asked the clerk; “the steward?”
“No, sir; he was the chief cashier, but now he has been promoted to be head clerk.”
“Haven’t you got a steward, then?”
“No, sir. There’s an agent, Mihal Vikulov, but no steward.”
“Is there a manager, then?”
“Yes; a German, Lindamandol, Karlo Karlitch; only he does not manage the estate.”
“Who does manage it, then?”
“Our mistress herself.”
“You don’t say so. And are there many of you in the office?”