it!

Yesterday, Ivan Andreyevitch Petunikoff was in the dosshouse yard
with his son and an architect. They measured the yard and put
small wooden sticks in various places, which, after the exit of
Petunikoff and at the order of the Captain, Meteor took out and
threw away. To the eyes of the Captain this merchant appeared
small and thin. He wore a long garment like a frock-coat, a
velvet cap, and high, well-cleaned boots. He had a thin face
with prominent cheekbones, a wedge-shaped greyish beard, and a
high forehead seamed with wrinkles from beneath which shone two
narrow, blinking, and observant grey eyes . . . a sharp, gristly
nose, a small mouth with thin lips . . . altogether his
appearance was pious, rapacious, and respectably wicked.
"Cursed cross-bred fox and pig!" swore the Captain under his
breath, recalling his first meeting with Petunikoff. The merchant
came with one of the town councillors to buy the house, and
seeing the Captain asked his companion:

"Is this your lodger?"

And from that day, a year and a half ago, there has been keen
competition among the inhabitants of the dosshouse as to which
can swear the hardest at the merchant. And last night there was
a "slight skirmish with hot words," as the Captain called it,
between Petunikoff and himself. Having dismissed the architect
the merchant approached the Captain.

"What are you hatching?" asked he, putting his hand to his cap,
perhaps to adjust it, perhaps as a salutation.