Zhukov the policeman, a sturdy, well-fed, red-haired man with a
full face (his cheeks quivered when he walked), usually sat lolling
and crossing his legs when not in the presence of his superiors.
As he talked he swayed to and fro and whistled carelessly, while
his face had a self-satisfied replete air, as though he had just
had dinner. He was making money, and he always talked of it with
the air of a connoisseur. He undertook jobs as an agent, and when
anyone wanted to sell an estate, a horse or a carriage, they applied
to him.

"Yes, it will be thirty thousand, I dare say," Sergey Nikanoritch
assented. "Your grandfather had an immense fortune," he said,
addressing Matvey. "Immense it was; all left to your father and
your uncle. Your father died as a young man and your uncle got hold
of it all, and afterwards, of course, Yakov Ivanitch. While you
were going pilgrimages with your mama and singing tenor in the
factory, they didn't let the grass grow under their feet."

"Fifteen thousand comes to your share," said the policeman swaying
from side to side. "The tavern belongs to you in common, so the
capital is in common. Yes. If I were in your place I should have
taken it into court long ago. I would have taken it into court for
one thing, and while the case was going on I'd have knocked his
face to a jelly."

Yakov Ivanitch was disliked because, when anyone believes differently
from others, it upsets even people who are indifferent to religion.
The policeman disliked him also because he, too, sold horses and
carriages.