ed he?" cried Pyotr Stepanovitch, flushing angrily. "It was his
duty to wait... what nonsense! He has no passport, no money!"

"I don't know. He came to say good-bye; he is dressed and ready. He
is going away and won't come back. He says you are a scoundrel and he
doesn't want to wait for your money."

"Ha ha! He is afraid that I'll... But even now I can... if... Where is
he, in the kitchen?"

Kirillov opened a side door into a tiny dark room; from this room three
steps led straight to the part of the kitchen where the cook's bed was
usually put, behind the partition. Here, in the corner under the ikons,
Fedka was sitting now, at a bare deal table. Before him stood a
pint bottle, a plate of bread, and some cold beef and potatoes on an
earthenware dish. He was eating in a leisurely way and was already half
drunk, but he was wearing his sheep-skin coat and was evidently ready
for a journey. A samovar was boiling the other side of the screen, but
it was not for Fedka, who had every night for a week or more zealously
blown it up and got it ready for "Alexey Nilitch, for he's such a habit
of drinking tea at nights." I am strongly disposed to believe that,
as Kirillov had not a cook, he had cooked the beef and potatoes that
morning with his own hands for Fedka.

"What notion is this?" cried Pyotr Stepanovitch, whisking into the room.
"Why didn't you wait where you were ordered?"

And swinging his fist, he brought it down heavily on the table.

Fedka assumed an air of dignity.

"You wait a bit, Pyotr Stepanovitch, you wait a bit," he began, with a
swaggering emphasis on each word, "it's your first duty to understand
here that you are on a polite visit to Mr. Kirillov, Alexey Nilitch,
whose boots you might clean any day, because beside you he is a man of
culture and you are only--foo!"

And he made a jaunty show of spitting to one side. Haughtiness and
determination were evident in his manner, and a certain very threatening
assumption of argumentative calm that suggested an outburst to follow.
But Pyotr Stepanovitch had no time to realise the danger, and it did not
fit in with his preconceived ideas. The incidents and disasters of the
day had quite turned his head. Liputin, at the top of the three steps,
stared inquisitively down from the little dark room.

"Do you or don't you want a trustworthy passport and good money to go
where you've been told? Yes or no?"

"D'you see, Pyotr Stepanovitch, you've been deceiving m