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with a pale smile. ‘I suppose it’s all up with me — what do
you think?’
‘Excuse me..’
Mitya remained standing, staring motionless. He sud-
denly noticed a movement in the old man’s face. He
started.
‘You see, sir, business of that sort’s not in our line,’ said
the old man slowly. ‘There’s the court, and the lawyers — it’s
a perfect misery. But if you like, there is a man here you
might apply to.’
‘Good heavens! Who is it? You’re my salvation, Kuzma
Kuzmitch,’ faltered Mitya.
‘He doesn’t live here, and he’s not here just now. He is a
peasant, he does business in timber. His name is Lyagavy.
He’s been haggling with Fyodor Pavlovitch for the last year,
over your copse at Tchermashnya. They can’t agree on the
price, maybe you’ve heard? Now he’s come back again and
is staying with the priest at Ilyinskoe, about twelve versts
from the Volovya station. He wrote to me, too, about the
business of the copse, asking my advice. Fyodor Pavlovitch
means to go and see him himself. So if you were to be be-
forehand with Fyodor Pavlovitch and to make Lyagavy the
offer you’ve made me, he might possibly — ‘
‘A brilliant idea!’ Mitya interrupted ecstatically. ‘He’s the
very man, it would just suit him. He’s haggling with him
for it, being asked too much, and here he would have all the
documents entitling him to the property itself. Ha ha ha!’
And Mitya suddenly went off into his short, wooden
laugh, startling Samsonov.