A SPORTSMAN'S SKETCHES
'Yegor reported to me,' Arkady Pavlitch remarked with dignity.
'To be sure, your honour, Yegor Dmitritch, to be sure.'
'Well, then, now I suppose you're satisfied.'
Sofron had only been waiting for this.
'Ah, you are our father, our benefactor!' he began, in the same sing-song as before. 'Indeed, now, your honour . . . why, for you, our father, we pray day and night to God Almighty. . . . There's too little land, of course . . .'
Pyenotchkin cut him short.
'There, that'll do, that'll do, Sofron; I know you're eager in my service. . . . Well, and how goes the threshing?'
Sofron sighed.
'Well, our father, the threshing's none too good. But there, your honour, Arkady Pavlitch, let me tell you about a little matter that came to pass.' (Here he came closer to Mr. Pyenotchkin, with his arms apart, bent down, and screwed up one eye.) 'There was a dead body found on our land.'
'How was that?'
'I can't think myself, your honour; it seems like the doing of the evil one. But, luckily, it was found near the boundary; on our side of it, to tell the truth. I ordered them to drag it on to the neighbour's strip of land at once, while it was still possible, and set a watch there, and sent word round to our folks. "Mum's the word," says I. But I explained how it was to the police
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