“Everything rests with the mistress,” observed the poor wretch.
“There, that’s what he’s got his eye on! a fellow like him! oo! oo! a!”
And they all roared; some rolled about with merriment. Louder than all laughed a lad of fifteen, probably the son of an aristocrat among the house-serfs; he wore a waistcoat with bronze buttons, and a cravat of lilac color, and had already had time to fill out his waistcoat.
“Come, tell us, confess now, Kuprya,” Nikolai Eremyitch began complacently, obviously tickled and diverted himself; “is it bad being stoker? Is it an easy job, eh?”
“Nikolai Eremyitch,” began Kuprya, “you’re head clerk among us now, certainly; there’s no disputing that, no; but you know you have been in disgrace yourself, and you too have lived in a peasant’s hut.”
“You’d better look out and not forget yourself in my place,” the fat man interrupted emphatically; “people joke with a fool like you; you ought, you fool, to have sense, and be grateful to them for taking notice of a fool like you.”
“It was a slip of the tongue, Nikolai Eremyitch; I beg your pardon—”
“Yes, indeed, a slip of the tongue.”
The door opened and a little page ran in.
“Nikolai Eremyitch, mistress wants you.”