“Well,” the charcoal-burner sneered. “You do as I tell you. Because if your comrade gets it into his head to steal one of my horses, I’ll knock you on the head with a weight, bind you, and…”

Without finishing his speech, he laughed, then began to cough long and painfully.…

VI

Having gone a distance of some five versts, the charcoal-burner at last spoke to his fare:

“Who are you?”

“A human being,” said Salakin through his teeth.

It was cold, riding. Salakin was shivering all over. The snow had stopped falling, but a keen wind was blowing. Twice Salakin had jumped off the sledge and run alongside the road in the hope of getting warm. But it was difficult to run in the deep yielding snow, he tired quickly, piled into the sledge again, and after that felt even colder. And every time he jumped out of the sledge, the charcoal-burner, who was dressed in a sturdy sheepskin jacket and an overcoat, thrust out from the sleeve of the overcoat a short stout stick with a chain at one end, from which a pound weight was suspended. At the sight of this bludgeon a hatred as terrible as the cold crushed Salakin’s heart.

“Everybody is a human being,” said the charcoal-burner. “But I’m asking you, where do you belong?”

“I belong nowhere. I am without kith or kin,” answered Salakin, and shouted:

“Vanya, are you alive?”

“Alive,” answered Vanyushka rather softly.

“Are you cold?”

“Sort of…”

“I look at you—” the charcoal-burner spoke grumblingly—“I can see, you’re unfortunates. Both in rags, queer fellows…loafers, I suppose.…”

Salakin sat hunched together and said nothing, trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

Looking back, he saw through the snowflakes, which were now few, a deserted, bluish waste. The sight pierced him with cold and anguish. There was nothing on it to arrest the eye.

“Take us, the Semakins, we are three brothers. We burn charcoal, understand, and take it to town, to the distillery. We live at peace. We have enough to eat, we have something to wear, shoes to our feet.…Everything is as it should be, thank God! A man who knows how to work, who isn’t lazy, doesn’t loaf, always lives well.…The older brothers are married, and I’m going to get married after the holidays.…That’s how it is. A man who works can get along.”

The horse moved with difficulty, straining against the collar; the sledge jerked; and Salakin was jolted like a nut held in the palm of the hand.

The charcoal-burner’s dull, obtuse, heavy words dropped upon Salakin’s soul like so many cold bricks, crushing it, and it was both painful and humiliating for him to listen to this man’s hollow voice.

“Vanyushka!” he shouted.

“Eh?”