“Pass on … hey there … get in front!” cried voices from the sledge.
Vasíli Andréevich swerved aside to pass the other sledge.
In it sat three men and a woman, evidently visitors returning from a feast. One peasant was whacking the snow-covered croup of their little horse with a long switch, and the other two sitting in front waved their arms and shouted something. The woman, completely wrapped up and covered with snow, sat drowsing and bumping at the back.
“Who are you?” shouted Vasíli Andréevich.
“From A-a-a …” was all that could be heard.
“I say, where are you from?”
“From A-a-a-a!” one of the peasants shouted with all his might, but still it was impossible to make out who they were.
“Get along! Keep up!” shouted another, ceaselessly beating his horse with the switch.
“So you’re from a feast, it seems?”
“Go on, go on! Faster, Simon! Get in front! Faster!”
The wings of the sledges bumped against one another, almost got jammed but managed to separate, and the peasants’ sledge began to fall behind.
Their shaggy, big-bellied horse, all covered with snow, breathed heavily under the low shaft-bow and, evidently using the last of its strength, vainly endeavoured to escape from the switch, hobbling with its short legs through the deep snow which it threw up under itself.
Its muzzle, young-looking, with the nether lip drawn up like that of a fish, nostrils distended and ears pressed back from fear, kept up for a few