in front as he did so.

'Ivan Demianitch?' my friend inquired through the door.

'The same, at your service,' the new comer responded. 'What are you up
to? At your toilette? That's right! that's right!' (The voice of the man
addressed as Ivan Demianitch had the same harsh, metallic note as his
laugh.) 'I've trudged all this way to give your little brother his
lesson; and he's got a cold, you know, and does nothing but sneeze. He
can't do his work. So I've looked in on you for a bit to warm myself.'

Ivan Demianitch laughed again the same strange guffaw, again dealt
himself a sounding smack on the leg, and pulling a check handkerchief
out of his pocket, blew his nose noisily, ferociously rolling his eyes,
spat into the handkerchief, and ejaculated with the whole force of his
lungs: 'Tfoo-o-o!'

Fustov came into the room, and shaking hands with both of us, asked us
if we were acquainted.

'Not a bit of it!' Ivan Demianitch boomed at once: 'the veteran of the
year twelve has not that honour!'

Fustov mentioned my name first, then, indicating the 'veteran of the
year twelve,' he pronounced: 'Ivan Demianitch Ratsch, professor of...
various subjects.'

'Precisely so, various they are, precisely,' Mr. Ratsch chimed in. 'Come
to think of it, what is there I haven't taught, and that I'm not
teaching now, for that matter! Mathematics and geography and statistics