had blooded horses, General Chaulet, Muhammad. I had my piebald with me. My coachman was a splendid young fellow. I liked him. But he was rather given to drink, so I drove.—‘Sierpukhovskoï,’ said they, ‘when are you going to get some trotters?’—‘I don’t care for your lowbred beasts, the devil take ’em! I have a hackdriver’s piebald that’s worth all of yours.’—Yes, but he doesn’t race.’—‘Bet you a thousand rubles.’ They took me up. He went round in five seconds, won the wager of a thousand rubles. But that was nothing. With my blooded horses I went in a troika a hundred versts in three hours. All Moscow knew about it.”
And Sierpukhovskoï began to brag so fluently and steadily that the host could not get in a word, and sat facing him with dejected countenance. Only, by way of diversion, he would fill up his glass and that of his companion.
It began already to grow light, but still they sat there. It became painfully tiresome to the host. He got up.
“Sleep—let’s go to sleep, then,” said Sierpukhovskoï, as he got up, and went staggering and puffing to the room that had been assigned to him.
The master of the house rejoined his mistress.
“Oh, he’s unendurable. He got drunk, and lied faster than he could talk.”
“And he made love to me too.”
“I fear that he’s going to borrow of me.”
Sierpukhovskoï threw himself on the bed without undressing, and drew a long breath.
“I must have talked a good deal of nonsense,” he thought. “Well, it’s all the same. Good wine, but he’s a big hog. Something cheap about him. And I am a hog myself,” he remarked, and laughed aloud. “Well, I used