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I took my seat, looking at my watch: it was a quarter past ten. Yermolai did not even say good-bye to me he was engaged in beating his Valetka Filofey tugged at the reins, and shouted in a thin, thin voice: 'Hey! you little ones!
His gun was a single- barrelled flint-lock, endowed, moreover, with a villainous habit of 'kicking. It was due to this that Yermolai's right cheek was permanently swollen to a larger size than the left. How he ever succeeded in hitting anything with this gun, it would take a shrewd man to discover but he did. He had too a setter-dog, by name Valetka, a most extraordinary creature.
It's dark out of doors. 'To Tchaplino. 'But what's taking you to Tchaplino, ten miles away? 'I am going to stay the night at Sophron's there. 'But stay the night here. 'No, I can't. And Yermolai, with his Valetka, would go off into the dark night, through woods and water-courses, and the peasant Sophron very likely did not let him into his place, and even, I am afraid, gave him a blow to teach him 'not to disturb honest folks. But none could compare with Yermolai in skill in deep-water fishing in spring-time, in catching crayfish with his hands, in tracking game by scent, in snaring quails, in training hawks, in capturing the nightingales who had the greatest variety of notes. ... One thing he could not do, train a dog; he had not patience enough.
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