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Well, its this way. They stole a horse from a neighbor of mine Mikhaila was his name he was a tall fellow pock- marked. Well? Well, it was stolen. It was grazing in the pasture, and then it was gone. So when he, Mikhaila that is, understood that he had lost his horse, he threw himself on the ground, and he howled! Brother, how he howled! And he plumped down as though he had broken his legs. Well? Well he carried on like that for a long time. Whats that to you? At this sharp question, Hopeful moved away from his comrade and answered timidly: Nothing. I just happened to think of it. Because without a horse, a peasant is done for. Let me tell you something, began Jig-Leg sternly, looking pointblank at Hopeful, give it up! This kind of talk gets you nowhere, understand? Your neighbor, Mikhaila! Its not your affair. But its pity, Hopeful objected, shrugging his shoulders. A pity! Does anybody pity us? Thats true. Well, then, shut up! Well soon have to go. Soon? Yes. Hopeful edged toward the fire, poked it with a stick, and looking out of the corner of his eye at Jig-Leg, who was again absorbed in his work, he said in a soft, beseeching tone: Hadnt we better let that horse go? You have a mean nature! exclaimed Jig-Leg, aggrieved. But honest, said Hopeful softly and persuasively. Think of it, its dangerous! Well have to drag her along for a distance of four or five versts. And what if the Tartars dont take her? Then what! Thats my business. As you please. But it would be better to let her go. She can go and roam about. Look what an old nag she is! Jig-Leg held his peace, but his fingers moved faster than ever. What are we going to get for her? Hopeful drawled, softly but stubbornly. And this the best time. It will be dark soon. If we go along the ravine well come out at Dubenka, and there we may pick up something worth while. Hopefuls monotonous murmur, blending with the babble of the stream, floated down the ravine, and irritated the industrious Jig-Leg. |
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