"Yes, I heard."
"What sort of man is he? Who is he?"
"Self took lodgings, self should know; me stranger."
"Will you ever speak?" cried Ordynov, beside himself with an access of morbid irritability.
"What did me do? Your fault—you frightened the tenants. Below lives the coffin-maker, he deaf, but heard it all, and his wife deaf, but she heard, and in the next yard, far away, they heard. I go to the overseer."
"I am going to him myself," answered Ordynov; and he went to the gate.
"As you will; self took the room. . . . Master, master, stay."
Ordynov looked round; the porter touched his hat from politeness.
"Well!"
"If you go, I go to the landlord."
"What?"
"Better move."
"You’re stupid," said Ordynov, and was going on again.
"Master, master, stay." The porter touched his hat again and grinned. "Listen, master: be not wrathful; why persecute a poor man? It's a sin to persecute a poor man. It is not God's law—do you hear?"
"You listen, too: here, take that. Come, what is he?"
"What is he?"
"Yes."
"I'll tell you without money."
At this point the porter took up his broom, brandished it once or twice, then stopped and looked intently, with an air of importance, at Ordynov.
"You're a nice gentleman. If you don't want to live with a good man, do as you like; that’s what I say."
Then the Tatar looked at him still more expressively, and fell to sweeping furiously again.
Making a show of having finished something at last, he went up to Ordynov mysteriously, and with a very expressive gesture pronounced—
"This is how it is."
"How—what?"
"No sense."
"What?"
"Has flown away. Yes! Has flown away!" he repeated in a still more mysterious tone. "He is ill. He used to have a
