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Updated: May 25, 2025
The first room into which he went was large and very hot, and smelt of freshly washed floors. A short, lean peasant of about forty, with a small, fair beard, wearing a dark blue shirt, was sitting at the table under the holy images. It was Kalashnikov, an arrant scoundrel and horse-stealer, whose father and uncle kept a tavern in Bogalyovka, and disposed of the stolen horses where they could.
Yergunov, shivering and gasping, breathed on his hands, huddled up, and made a show of being very cold and exhausted. The still angry dogs could be heard howling outside. It was dreary. "You come from Bogalyovka, don't you?" he asked the peasant sternly. "Yes, from Bogalyovka." And to while away the time Yergunov began to think about Bogalyovka.
The path going down was steep, winding, and so narrow that when one drove down to Bogalyovka on account of some epidemic or to vaccinate the people, one had to shout at the top of one's voice, or whistle all the way, for if one met a cart coming up one could not pass. The peasants of Bogalyovka had the reputation of being good gardeners and horse-stealers. They had well-stocked gardens.
"You are a fine set of fellows in Bogalyovka!" he said, and wagged his head. "In what way fine fellows?" enquired Kalashnikov. "Why, about horses, for instance. Fine fellows at stealing!" "H'm! fine fellows, you call them. Nothing but thieves and drunkards." "They have had their day, but it is over," said Merik, after a pause. "But now they have only Filya left, and he is blind."
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