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A SPORTSMAN'S SKETCHES
bailiff will beat him now. Such a poor, unlucky chap, come to think of it! And what's his offence? . . . He had some wrangle in meeting with him, the agent, and he lost all patience, I suppose, and of course he wouldn't stand it. . . . A great matter, truly, to make so much of! So he began pecking at him, Antip. Now he'll eat him up altogether. You see, he's such a dog. Such a cur—God forgive my transgressions!—he knows whom to fall upon. The old men that are a bit richer, or've more children, he doesn't touch, the red-headed devil! but there's all the difference here! Why he's sent Antip's sons for recruits out of turn, the heartless ruffian, the cur! God forgive my transgressions!'
We went on our way.
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