Anton Prokofievitch had a habit of
wearing woollen clothing in summer and nankeen in winter.

Anton Prokofievitch had no house of his own. He used to have one on
the outskirts of the town; but he sold it, and with the purchase-money
bought a team of brown horses and a little carriage in which he drove
about to stay with the squires. But as the horses were a deal of trouble
and money was required for oats, Anton Prokofievitch bartered them for
a violin and a housemaid, with twenty-five paper rubles to boot.
Afterwards Anton Prokofievitch sold the violin, and exchanged the girl
for a morocco and gold tobacco-pouch; now he has such a tobacco-pouch as
no one else has. As a result of this luxury, he can no longer go about
among the country houses, but has to remain in the town and pass the
night at different houses, especially of those gentlemen who take
pleasure in tapping him on the nose. Anton Prokofievitch is very fond of
good eating, and plays a good game at cards. Obeying orders always
was his forte; so, taking his hat and cane, he set out at once on his
errand.

But, as he walked along, he began to ponder in what manner he should
contrive to induce Ivan Nikiforovitch to come to the assembly. The
unbending character of the latter, who was otherwise a worthy man,
rendered the undertaking almost hopeless. How, indeed, was he to
persuade him to come, when even rising from his bed cost him so great
an effort? But supposing that he did rise, how could he get him to come,
where, as he doubtless knew, his irreconcilable enemy already was? The
more Anton Prokofievitch reflected, the more difficulties he perceived.
The day was sultry, the sun beat down, the perspiration poured from
him in streams. Anton Prokofievitch was a tolerably sharp man in many
respects though they did tap him on the nose. In bartering, however,
he was not fortunate. He knew very well when to play the fool, and
sometimes contrived to turn things to his own profit amid circumstances
and surroundings from which a wise man could rarely escape without loss.

His ingenious mind had contrived a means of persuading Ivan
Nikiforovitch; and he was proceeding bravely to face everything when
an unexpected occurrence somewhat disturbed his equanimity. There is
no harm, at this point, in admitting to the reader that, among other
things, Anton Prokofievitch was the owner of a pair of trousers of such
singular properties that whenever he put them on the dogs always b