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He used to spell it "conshtable" when he signed the receipts at the post office. "And where are the witnesses?" "They must have gone to tea, your honor." On the right was the parlor, the travelers' or gentry's room; on the left the kitchen, with a big stove and sleeping shelves under the rafters.
In the outer room the doctor and the examining magistrate shook the snow off themselves and knocked it off their boots. And meanwhile the old village constable, Ilya Loshadin, stood by, holding a little tin lamp. There was a strong smell of paraffin. "Who are you?" asked the doctor. "Conshtable,..." answered the constable.
The bookkeeper had introduced him: "This is our insurance agent." "So that was Lesnitsky,... this same man," Lyzhin reflected now. He recalled Lesnitsky's soft voice, imagined his gait, and it seemed to him that someone was walking beside him now with a step like Lesnitsky's. All at once he felt frightened, his head turned cold. "Who's there?" he asked in alarm. "The conshtable!"
He laid the money and Fred's receipt upon the table and set Patsy's plate over them to hold them safe against the wind that rattled the shack. He had forgotten all about the three approaching riders, until Patsy turned upon him sharply. "Vot schrapes you been into now?" he demanded querulously. "Py cosh you done somet'ings. It's der conshtable comin' alreatty. I bet you be pinched."
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