“Why?”

“You notice it—the hillock.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

They got into the sledge and drove on, tightly pressed against each other. Vanyushka looked back and it seemed to him that they were going at a terribly slow pace, because the hillock of snow over the body continued to remain in sight.

“Hurry the horse,” he begged Salakin, closing his eyes tightly and keeping them shut for a long time. When he opened them he still saw, far off, to the left of the road, a little mound on the level snow.

“Oh, we’re done for, Yeremey,” said Vanyushka almost in a whisper.

“Don’t worry,” Salakin answered in a hollow voice. “We’ll sell the horse, and then we’ll go back to the city. …Go find us! And now, here’s Vishenki.”

The road led downhill into a shallow depression filled with snow. Bare black trees appeared on both sides of the road. A jackdaw screamed. The comrades shivered, and each looked silently at the other’s face.

“Be careful,” Vanyushka whispered to Salakin.

VIII

They entered the pot-house jauntily and noisily.

“Hey, old man, turn on the tap and give us a glass each.”

“It can be done,” said a tall, dark peasant with a bald spot, rising from behind the counter, and he looked at Vanyushka with such simple-hearted geniality that he stood still in the middle of the room and smiled guiltily.

“It’s the custom here,” said the tavern-keeper, setting the glasses down before Salakin, “that when a man comes into a place he says, ‘Good day’ or ‘How are you?’ Did you come a long way?”

“We? Oh, no, we…we don’t hail from far away, about thirty versts,” explained Salakin.

“In which direction?”

“This,” and Salakin pointed to the door of the pot-house.

“So you’re from near town?” asked the tavern-keeper.

“That’s right.…Come, Vanya, drink.”

“That your brother?”

“No,” Vanyushka answered quickly. “We’re no brothers.”

In the corner, beside the door, sat a peasant, a short man with a sharp, beaklike nose and keen, gray eyes. He got up, slowly walked to the counter and unceremoniously stared at the comrades.

“What is it?” asked the tavern-keeper.

“Nothing,” said the peasant in a creaking voice. “I thought maybe I knew them.”