A SPORTSMAN'S SKETCHES
Kuprya Afanasyitch sing us his song. Come on, now; begin, Kuprya Afanasyitch.
'Yes! yes!' put in the others. 'Hoorah for Alexandra! That's one for Kuprya; 'pon my soul . . . Sing away, Kuprya! . . . You're a regular brick, Alexandra!' (Serfs often use feminine terminations in referring to a man as an expression of endearment.) 'Sing away!'
'This is not the place to sing,' Kuprya replied firmly; 'this is the manor counting-house.'
'And what's that to do with you? you've got your eye on a place as clerk, eh?' answered Konstantin with a coarse laugh. 'That's what it is!'
'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 colour, 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
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