“Ah, Vasíli Andréevich! Where are you off to?” said Isáy, enveloping Nikíta in the odour of the vodka he had drunk.
“We were going to Goryáchkin.”
“And look where you’ve got to! You should have gone through Molchánovka.”
“Should have, but didn’t manage it,” said Vasíli Andréevich, holding in the horse.
“That’s a good horse,” said Isáy, with a shrewd glance at Mukhórty, and with a practised hand he tightened the loosened knot high in the horse’s bushy tail.
“Are you going to stay the night?”
“No, friend. I must get on.”
“Your business must be pressing. And who is this? Ah, Nikíta Stepánych!”
“Who else?” replied Nikíta. “But I say, good friend, how are we to avoid going astray again?”
“Where can you go astray here? Turn back straight down the street and then when you come out keep straight on. Don’t take to the left. You will come out onto the high road, and then turn to the right.”
“And where do we turn off the high road? As in summer, or the winter way?” asked Nikíta.
“The winter way. As soon as you turn off you’ll see some bushes, and opposite them there is a way-mark—a large oak, one with branches—and that’s the way.”