vitch took a pinch of snuff.

"Just as you like, Ivan Nikiforovitch. I do not know what detains you."

"Why don't I go?" said Ivan Nikiforovitch at length: "because that
brigand will be there!" This was his ordinary way of alluding to Ivan
Ivanovitch. "Just God! and is it long?"

"He will not be there, he will not be there! May the lightning kill me
on the spot!" returned Anton Prokofievitch, who was ready to perjure
himself ten times in an hour. "Come along, Ivan Nikiforovitch!"

"You lie, Anton Prokofievitch! he is there!"

"By Heaven, by Heaven, he's not! May I never stir from this place if
he's there! Now, just think for yourself, what object have I in lying?
May my hands and feet wither!--What, don't you believe me now? May I
perish right here in your presence! Don't you believe me yet?"

Ivan Nikiforovitch was entirely reassured by these asseverations, and
ordered his valet, in the boundless coat, to fetch his trousers and
nankeen spencer.

To describe how Ivan Nikiforovitch put on his trousers, how they wound
his neckerchief about his neck, and finally dragged on his spencer,
which burst under the left sleeve, would be quite superfluous. Suffice
it to say, that during the whole of the time he preserved a becoming
calmness of demeanour, and answered not a word to Anton Prokofievitch's
proposition to exchange something for his Turkish tobacco-pouch.

Meanwhile, the assembly awaited with impatience the decisive moment when
Ivan Nikiforovitch should make his appearance and at length comply with
the general desire that these worthy people should be reconciled to
each other. Many were almost convinced that Ivan Nikiforovitch would
not come. Even the chief of police offered to bet with one-eyed Ivan
Ivanovitch that he would not come; and only desisted when one-eyed Ivan
Ivanovitch demanded that he should wager his lame foot against his own
bad eye, at which the chief of police was greatly offended, and the
company enjoyed a quiet laugh. No one had yet sat down to the table,
although it was long past two o'clock, an hour before which in Mirgorod,
even on ceremonial occasions, every one had already dined.

No sooner did Anton Prokofievitch show himself in the doorway, then
he was instantly surrounded. Anton Prokofievitch, in answer to all
inquiries, shouted the all-decisive words, "He will not come!" No sooner
had he uttered them than a hailstorm of reproaches, scoldings, and,
possibly, even fillips were about to