“Let’s sit here awhile and get warm,” said Salakin, leaving the corner and pulling Vanyushka by the sleeve.

They stepped aside and sat down at a table. The peasant with the beaklike nose remained at the counter and said something under his breath to the tavern-keeper.

“Let’s go. Let’s be off,” whispered Vanyushka to Salakin.

“Wait,” Salakin said loudly.

Vanyushka looked reproachfully at his comrade and shook his head. It seemed to him that under the circumstances it was dangerous, wrong, awkward to speak aloud in the presence of strangers.

“Another glass for each of us,” Salakin ordered.

The door of the pot-house creaked, and two more peasants entered: an old man with a long, gray beard and a stocky, big-headed man in a short sheepskin coat, which reached to his knees.

“May you be in good health,” said the old man.

“A welcome to you,” responded the tavern-keeper, and glanced at Salakin.

“Whose horse is that?” asked the stocky peasant, nodding toward the door.

“It belongs to these two,” the sharp-nosed peasant declared slowly, pointing his finger at Salakin.

“It’s ours,” Salakin said in confirmation.

Vanyushka heard the voices, and fear kept clutching at his heart. It seemed to him that all these people were talking in a peculiar way, too plainly, as though they knew everything, were surprised at nothing, and were waiting for something.

“Let’s drive off,” he whispered to his comrade.

“And who are you?” the stocky peasant asked Salakin.

“We? We’re butchers,” Salakin answered suddenly, and smiled.

“What are you saying?” exclaimed Vanyushka uneasily, vainly trying to lower his voice.

All the four peasants heard his exclamation, and slowly turning their heads, they stared at him with inquisitive eyes. Salakin looked at them calmly, only his tightly compressed lips quivering. But Vanyushka bowed his head over the table and waited, feeling as though he could not breathe. The silence, heavy as a cloud, did not last long.…

“So that’s why,” said the stocky peasant, “I noticed that the front of the sledge was stained with blood.”

“What!” said Salakin boldly.

“As for me,” said the old man, “I didn’t notice any blood. Was there blood? I looked at the sledge and it was all black, so I thought to myself, these must be charcoal-burners. Pour me out a glass, Ivan Petrovich.”

The tavern-keeper poured out a glass of vodka and slowly, like a well-fed tom-cat, walked out of the door. The peasant with the beaklike nose waited until he passed by him and then he also walked out of the door.

“Well,” said Salakin, getting up from his chair, “well, Vanya, we must be off. Where’s the tavern-keeper? Doesn’t he want his money?”