“There now, you’ll have a chance of a holiday with your good man,” said Nikíta, who from kindhearted politeness always said something to anyone he was alone with.
Then, drawing his worn narrow girdle round him, he drew in his breath, pulling in his lean stomach still more, and girdled himself as tightly as he could over his sheepskin.
“There now,” he said addressing himself no longer to the cook but the girdle, as he tucked the ends in at the waist, “now you won’t come undone!” And working his shoulders up and down to free his arms, he put the coat over his sheepskin, arched his back more strongly to ease his arms, poked himself under the armpits, and took down his leather-covered mittens from the shelf. “Now we’re all right!”
“You ought to wrap your feet up, Nikíta. Your boots are very bad.”
Nikíta stopped as if he had suddenly realized this.
“Yes, I ought to. … But they’ll do like this. It isn’t far!” and he ran out into the yard.
“Won’t you be cold, Nikíta?” said the mistress as he came up to the sledge.
“Cold? No, I’m quite warm,” answered Nikíta as he pushed some straw up to the forepart of the sledge so that it should cover his feet, and stowed away the whip, which the good horse would not need, at the bottom of the sledge.
Vasíli Andréevich, who was wearing two fur-lined coats one over the other, was already in the sledge, his broad back filling nearly its whole rounded width, and taking the reins he immediately touched the horse. Nikíta jumped in just as the sledge started, and seated himself in front on the left side, with one leg hanging over the edge.