‘I say I once went to Pashútino in half an hour,’ shouted Vasíli Andréevich.
‘It goes without saying that he’s a good horse,’ replied Nikíta.
They were silent for awhile. But Vasíli Andréevich wished to talk.
‘Well, did you tell your wife not to give the cooper any vodka?’ he began in the same loud tone, quite convinced that Nikíta must feel flattered to be talking with so clever and important a person as himself, and he was so pleased with his jest that it did not enter his head that the remark might be unpleasant to Nikíta.
The wind again prevented Nikíta’s hearing his master’s words.
Vasíli Andréevich repeated the jest about the cooper in his loud, clear voice.
‘That’s their business, Vasíli Andréevich. I don’t pry into their affairs. As long as she doesn’t ill-treat our boy – God be with them.’
‘That’s so,’ said Vasíli Andréevich. ‘Well, and will you be buying a horse in spring?’ he went on, changing the subject.
‘Yes, I can’t avoid it,’ answered Nikíta, turning down his collar and leaning back towards his master.
The conversation now became interesting to him and he did not wish to lose a word.
‘The lad’s growing up. He must begin to plough for himself, but till now we’ve always had to hire someone,’ he said.
‘Well, why not have the lean-cruppered one. I won’t charge much for it,’ shouted Vasíli Andréevich, feeling animated, and consequently starting on his favourite occupation – that of horse-dealing – which absorbed all his mental powers.
‘Or you might let me have fifteen rubles and I’ll buy one at the horse-market,’ said Nikíta, who knew that the horse Vasíli Andréevich wanted to sell him would be dear at seven rubles, but that if he took it from him it would be charged at twenty-five, and then he would be unable to draw any money for half a year.
‘It’s a good horse. I think of your interest as of my own – according to conscience. Brekhunóv isn’t a man to wrong anyone. Let the loss be mine. I’m not like others. Honestly!’ he shouted in the voice in which he hypnotized his customers and dealers. ‘It’s a real good horse.’
‘Quite so!’ said Nikíta with a sigh, and convinced that there was nothing more to listen to, he again released his collar, which immediately covered his ear and face.
They drove on in silence for about half an hour. The wind blew sharply onto Nikíta’s side and arm where his sheepskin was torn.
He huddled up and breathed into the collar which covered his mouth, and was not wholly cold.
‘What do you think – shall we go through Karamýshevo or by the straight road?’ asked Vasíli Andréevich.
The road through Karamýshevo was more frequented and was well marked with a double row of high stakes. The straight road was nearer but little used and had no stakes, or only poor ones covered with snow.
Nikíta thought awhile.
‘Though Karamýshevo is farther, it is better going,’ he said.
‘But by the straight road, when once we get through the hollow by the forest, it’s good going – sheltered,’ said Vasíli Andréevich, who wished to go the nearest way.
‘Just as you please,’ said Nikíta, and again let go of his collar.
Vasíli Andréevich did as he had said, and having gone about half a verst came to a tall oak stake which had a few dry leaves still dangling on it, and there he turned to the left.
On turning they faced directly against the wind, and snow was beginning to fall. Vasíli Andréevich, who was driving, inflated his cheeks, blowing the breath out through his moustache. Nikíta dozed.
So they went on in silence for about ten minutes. Suddenly Vasíli Andréevich began saying something.
‘Eh, what?’ asked Nikíta, opening his eyes.
Vasíli Andréevich did not answer, but bent over, looking behind them and then ahead of the horse. The sweat had curled Mukhórty’s coat between his legs and on his neck. He went at a walk.
‘What is it?’ Nikíta asked again.
‘What is it? What is it?’ Vasíli Andréevich mimicked him angrily. ‘There are no stakes to be seen! We must have got off the road!’
‘Well, pull up then, and I’ll look for it,’ said Nikíta, and jumping down lightly from the sledge and taking the whip from under the straw, he went off to the left from his own side of the sledge.
The snow was not deep that year, so that it was possible to walk anywhere, but still in places it was knee-deep and got into Nikíta’s boots. He went about feeling the ground with his feet and the whip, but could not find the road anywhere.
‘Well, how is it?’ asked Vasíli Andréevich when Nikíta came back to the sledge.
‘There is no road this side. I must go to the other side and try there,’ said Nikíta.
‘There’s something there in front. Go and have a look.’
Nikíta went to what had appeared dark, but found that it was earth which the wind had blown from the bare fields of winter oats and had strewn over the snow, colouring it. Having searched to the right also, he returned to the sledge, brushed the snow from his coat, shook it out of his boots, and seated himself once more.
