have . . . vaunted freedom indeed . . . and can't get horses . . . scou-oundrels!'
'Scou-oundrels, scou-oundrels!' thereupon came the sound of another voice from within, and at the same moment there appeared on the steps—also in a grey smoking pea-jacket and pyjamas—actually, unmistakably, the real Gubaryov himself, Stepan Nikolaevitch Gubaryov. 'Filthy louts!' he went on in imitation of his brother (it turned out that the first gentleman was his elder brother, the man of the old school, famous for his fists, who had managed his estate). 'Flogging 's what they want, that 's it; a tap or two on the snout, that 's the sort of freedom for them. . . . Self-government indeed. . . . I 'd let them know it. . . . But where is that M'sieu Roston? . . . What is he thinking about? . . . It's his business, the lazy scamp . . . to see we 're not put to inconvenience.'
'Well, I told you, brother,' began the elder Gubaryov, 'that he was a lazy scamp, no good in fact! But there, for the sake of old times, you . . . M'sieu Roston, M'sieu Roston! . . . Where have you got to?'
'Roston! Roston!' bawled the younger, the great Gubaryov. 'Give a good call for him, do, brother Dorimedont Nikolaitch!'
'Well, I am shouting for him, Stepan Nikolaitch! M'sieu Roston!'
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