Anton Chekhov

“ It can't kill you!"
"Very well, then," Buldeeff consented. "I would willingly send a telegram to the devil, let alone to an exciseman. Ouch! I can't stand this! Come, where does your conjuror live? What is his name?"
The general sat down at his desk, and took up a pen.
"He is known to every dog in Saratoff," said the steward. "Just address the telegram to Mr. Jacob—Jacob—"
"Well?"
"Jacob—Jacob— what? I can't remember his surname. Jacob—darn it, what is his surname? I thought of it as I was coming along. Wait a minute!"
Ivan raised his eyes to the ceiling, and moved his lips. ”

“ Among others his steward, Ivan Evceitch came to him, and advised him to try a conjuror.
"Your Excellency," said he, "Ten years ago an exciseman lived in this county whose name was Jacob. He was a first-class conjurer for the toothache. He used simply to turn toward the window and spit, and the pain would go in a minute. That was his gift."
"Where is he now?"
"After he was dismissed from the revenue service, he went to live in Saratoff with his mother-in-law. He makes his living off nothing but teeth now. If any one has a toothache, he sends for him to cure it. ”

“ Judging from the deep wrinkles that furrowed his brow, he was painfully racking his brains over something, and was muttering to himself:
"Dunn—Sadler—Buckle—Coachman—"
"Hello, Ivаn !" cried the doctor driving up. "Won't you sell me a load of hay? I have been buying mine from the peasants lately, but it's no good." ”