Stepanovitch flew into a violent rage.

"Tell me, have you seen Stavrogin to-day?"

"Don't you dare to question me. Mr. Stavrogin is fairly amazed at you,
and he had no share in it even in wish, let alone instructions or giving
money. You've presumed with me."

"You'll get the money and you'll get another two thousand in Petersburg,
when you get there, in a lump sum, and you'll get more."

"You are lying, my fine gentleman, and it makes me laugh to see how
easily you are taken in. Mr. Stavrogin stands at the top of the ladder
above you, and you yelp at him from below like a silly puppy dog, while
he thinks it would be doing you an honour to spit at you."

"But do you know," cried Pyotr Stepanovitch in a rage, "that I won't
let you stir a step from here, you scoundrel, and I'll hand you straight
over to the police."

Fedka leapt on to his feet and his eyes gleamed with fury. Pyotr
Stepanovitch pulled out his revolver. Then followed a rapid and
revolting scene: before Pyotr Stepanovitch could take aim, Fedka swung
round and in a flash struck him on the cheek with all his might. Then
there was the thud of a second blow, a third, then a fourth, all on the
cheek. Pyotr Stepanovitch was dazed; with his eyes starting out of his
head, he muttered something, and suddenly crashed full length to the
ground.

"There you are; take him," shouted Fedka with a triumphant swagger; he
instantly took up his cap, his bag from under the bench, and was gone.
Pyotr Stepanovitch lay gasping and unconscious. Liputin even imagined
that he had been murdered. Kirillov ran headlong into the kitchen.

"Water!" he cried, and ladling some water in an iron dipper from a
bucket, he poured it over the injured man's head. Pyotr Stepanovitch
stirred, raised his head, sat up, and looked blankly about him.

"Well, how are you?" asked Kirillov. Pyotr Stepanovitch looked at him
intently, still not recognising him; but seeing Liputin peeping in from
the kitchen, he smiled his hateful smile and suddenly got up, picking up
his revolver from the floor.

"If you take it into your head to run away to-morrow like that scoundrel
Stavrogin," he cried, pouncing furiously on Kirillov, pale, stammering,
and hardly able to articulate his words, "I'll hang you... like a
fly... or crush you... if it's at the other end of the world... do you
understand!"

And he held the revolver straight at Kirillov's head; but almost at the
same minute, coming completely to hi