'All gone? How's that? Why, we took pretty nearly thirty pounds with us
from the village--a whole bag!'
'That's so; and a big bag it was: enough for a fortnight. But there's no
knowing! There must have been a hole come in it, or something; anyway,
there's no shot... that's to say, there's enough for ten charges left.'
'What are we to do now? The very best places are before us--we're
promised six coveys for to-morrow....'
'Well, send me to Tula. It's not so far from here; only forty miles.
I'll fly like the wind, and bring forty pounds of shot if you say the
word.'
'But when would you go?'
'Why, directly. Why put it off? Only, I say, we shall have to hire
horses.'
'Why hire horses? Why not our own?'
'We can't drive there with our own. The shaft horse has gone lame...
terribly!'
'Since when's that?'
'Well, the other day, the coachman took him to be shod. So he was shod,
and the blacksmith, I suppose, was clumsy. Now, he can't even step on
the hoof. It's a front leg. He lifts it up... like a dog.'
'Well? they've taken the shoe off, I suppose, at least?'
'No, they've not; but, of course, they ought to take it off. A nail's
been driven right into the flesh, I should say.'
I ordered the coachman to be summoned. It turned out that Yermolaï had
spoken the truth: the shaft-horse really could not put its hoof to the
ground. I promptly gave orders for it to have the shoe taken off, and to
be stood on damp clay.
'Then do you wish me to hire horses to go to Tula?' Yermolaï persisted.
'Do you suppose we can get horses in this wilderness?' I exclaimed with
involuntary irritation. The village in which we found ourselves was a
desolate, God-forsaken place; all its inhabitants seemed to be
poverty-stricken; we had difficulty in discovering one hut, moderately
roomy, and even that one had no chimney.
'Yes,' replied Yermolaï with his habitual equanimity; 'what you said
about this village is true enough; but there used to be living in this
very place one peasant--a very clever fellow! rich too! He had nine
horses. He's dead, and his eldest son manages it all now. The man's a
perfect fool, but still he's not had time to waste his father's wealth
yet. We can get horses from him. If you say the word, I will fetch him.
His brothers, I've heard say, are smart chaps...but still, he's their
head.'
'Why so?'
'Because--he's the eldest! Of course, the younger ones must obey!' Here
Yermolaï, in reference to younger brothers as a class, expressed himself
with a vigour quite unsuitable for print.
'I'll fetch him. He's a simple fellow. With him you can't fail to come
to terms.'
While Yermolaï went after his 'simple fellow' the idea occurred to me
that it might be better for me to drive into Tula myself. In the first
place, taught by experience, I had no very great confidence in Yermolaï:
I had once sent him to the town for purchases; he had promised to get
through all my commissions in one day, and was gone a whole week, drank
up all the money, and came back on foot, though he had set off in my
racing droshky. And, secondly, I had an acquaintance in Tula, a
horsedealer; I might buy a horse off him to take the place of the
disabled shaft-horse.
'The thing's decided!' I thought; 'I'll drive over myself; I can sleep
just as well on the road--luckily, the coach is comfortable.'
'I've brought him!' cried Yermolaï, rushing into the hut a quarter of an
hour later. He was followed by a tall peasant in a white shirt, blue
breeches, and bast shoes, with white eyebrows and short-sighted eyes, a
wedge-shaped red beard, a long swollen nose, and a gaping mouth. He
certainly did look 'simple.'
'Here, your honour,' observed Yermolaï, 'he has horses--and he's
willing.'
'So be, surely, I'... the peasant began hesitatingly in a rather hoarse
voice, shaking his thin wisps of hair, and drumming with his fingers on
the band of the cap he held in his hands.... 'Surely, I....'
'What's your name?' I inquired.