THE COUNTING-HOUSE
The clerk on duty came in.
'What is it?'
'Sidor is here from Goloplek.'
'Oh! ask him in. Wait a bit, wait a bit. . . .
First go and look whether the strange gentleman's still asleep, or whether he has waked up.'
The clerk on duty came cautiously into my room. I laid my head on my game-bag, which served me as a pillow, and closed my eyes.
'He's asleep,' whispered the clerk on duty, returning to the counting-house.
The fat man muttered something.
'Well, send Sidor in,' he said at last.
I got up again. A peasant of about thirty, of huge stature, came in—a red-cheeked, vigorous-looking fellow, with brown hair, and a short curly beard. He crossed himself, praying to the holy image, bowed to the head-clerk, held his hat before him in both hands, and stood erect.
'Good day, Sidor,' said the fat man, tapping with the reckoning beads.
'Good-day to you, Nikolai Eremyitch.'
'Well, what are the roads like?'
'Pretty fair, Nikolai Eremyitch. A bit muddy.' (The peasant spoke slowly and not loud.)
'Wife quite well?'
'She's all right!'
The peasant gave a sigh and shifted one leg forward. Nikolai Eremyitch put his pen behind his ear, and blew his nose.
'Well, what have you come about?' he pro-
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