“All right,” said the lad in a cheerful voice, and ran back into the passage.
“But we’re not staying the night,” said Vasíli Andréevich.
“Where will you go in the night? You’d better stay!”
“I’d be glad to, but I must go on. It’s business, and it can’t be helped.”
“Well, warm yourself at least. The samovar is just ready.”
“Warm myself? Yes, I’ll do that,” said Vasíli Andréevich. “It won’t get darker. The moon will rise and it will be lighter. Let’s go in and warm ourselves, Nikíta.”
“Well, why not? Let us warm ourselves,” replied Nikíta, who was stiff with cold and anxious to warm his frozen limbs.
Vasíli Andréevich went into the room with the old man, and Nikíta drove through the gate opened for him by Petrúshka, by whose advice he backed the horse under the penthouse. The ground was covered with manure and the tall bow over the horse’s head caught against the beam. The hens and the cock had already settled to roost there, and clucked peevishly, clinging to the beam with their claws. The disturbed sheep shied and rushed aside trampling the frozen manure with their hooves. The dog yelped desperately with fright and anger and then burst out barking like a puppy at the stranger.
Nikíta talked to them all, excused himself to the fowls and assured them that he would not disturb them again, rebuked the sheep for being frightened without knowing why, and kept soothing the dog, while he tied up the horse.
“Now that will be all right,” he said, knocking the snow off his clothes. “Just hear how he barks!” he added, turning to the dog. “Be quiet, stupid! Be quiet. You are only troubling yourself for nothing. We’re not thieves, we’re friends. …”