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Updated: June 17, 2025
The stranger seemed to be a man fond of talking and ready of speech, and Dyudya learned from him that he was from the town, was of the tradesman class, and had a house of his own, that his name was Matvey Savitch, that he was on his way now to look at some gardens that he was renting from some German colonists, and that the boy's name was Kuzka.
"I'll pull your ears off!" yelled Matvey Savitch. "Dirty brat!" The cap was found at the bottom of the cart. Kuzka brushed the hay off it with his sleeve, put it on, and timidly he crawled into the cart, still with an expression of terror on his face as though he were afraid of a blow from behind. Matvey Savitch crossed himself.
When the travellers were ready to start, they were detained for a minute. Kuzka had lost his cap. "Little swine, where did you put it?" Matvey Savitch roared angrily. "Where is it?" Kuzka's face was working with terror; he ran up and down near the cart, and not finding it there, ran to the gate and then to the shed. The old woman and Sofya helped him look.
Staggering, he went into the cowshed, and without undressing he rolled into a sledge and began to snore at once. When first the crosses on the church and then the windows were flashing in the light of the rising sun, and shadows stretched across the yard over the dewy grass from the trees and the top of the well, Matvey Savitch jumped up and began hurrying about: "Kuzka! get up!" he shouted.
His head propped in both hands, he gazed at the sky, and in the distance he looked in the dark like a stump of wood. "Kuzka, come to bed," Matvey Savitch bawled to him. "Yes, it's time," said Dyudya, getting up; he yawned loudly and added: "Folks will go their own way, and that's what comes of it."
The hunchback Alyoshka came into the yard from the street and ran out of breath into the house, not looking at any one. A minute later he ran out of the house with a concertina. Jingling some coppers in his pocket, and cracking sunflower seeds as he ran, he went out at the gate. "And who's that, pray?" asked Matvey Savitch. "My son Alexey," answered Dyudya. "He's off on a spree, the rascal.
Dyudya came out of the house with his accounts in his hands, sat down on the step, and began reckoning how much the traveller owed him for the night's lodging, oats, and watering his horses. "You charge pretty heavily for the oats, my good man," said Matvey Savitch. "If it's too much, don't take them. There's no compulsion, merchant."
"It iss a pleesant night, whatever," remarked old McKay, lighting his pipe with a brand plucked from the fire which his family and the Davidsons shared in common; "an' if it wass always like this, it iss myself that would not object to be a rud savitch." "I don't know that a rud savitch is much worse than a white wan," growled Duncan junior, in an under-tone.
I tried to defend her, but he snatched up the reins and thrashed her with them, and all the while, like a colt's whinny, he went: 'He he he!" "I'd take the reins and let you feel them," muttered Varvara, moving away; "murdering our sister, the damned brutes!..." "Hold your tongue, you jade!" Dyudya shouted at her. "'He he he!" Matvey Savitch went on.
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