on his favourite occupation—that of horse-dealing—which absorbed all his mental powers.
“Or you might let me have fifteen rubles and I’ll buy one at the horse-market,” said Nikíta, who knew that the horse Vasíli Andréevich wanted to sell him would be dear at seven rubles, but that if he took it from him it would be charged at twenty-five, and then he would be unable to draw any money for half a year.
“It’s a good horse. I think of your interest as of my own—according to conscience. Brekhunóv isn’t a man to wrong anyone. Let the loss be mine. I’m not like others. Honestly!” he shouted in the voice in which he hypnotized his customers and dealers. “It’s a real good horse.”
“Quite so!” said Nikíta with a sigh, and convinced that there was nothing more to listen to, he again released his collar, which immediately covered his ear and face.
They drove on in silence for about half an hour. The wind blew sharply onto Nikíta’s side and arm where his sheepskin was torn.
He huddled up and breathed into the collar which covered his mouth, and was not wholly cold.
“What do you think—shall we go through Karamýshevo or by the straight road?” asked Vasíli Andréevich.
The road through Karamýshevo was more frequented and was well marked with a double row of high stakes. The straight road was nearer but little used and had no stakes, or only poor ones covered with snow.
Nikíta thought awhile.
“Though Karamýshevo is farther, it is better going,” he said.