Vasíli Andréevich meanwhile had unfastened his coat, and holding its skirts up for shelter, struck one sulphur match after another on the steel box. But his hands trembled, and one match after another either did not kindle or was blown out by the wind just as he was lifting it to the cigarette. At last a match did burn up, and its flame lit up for a moment the fur of his coat, his hand with the gold ring on the bent forefinger, and the snow-sprinkled oat-straw that stuck out from under the drugget. The cigarette lighted, he eagerly took a whiff or two, inhaled the smoke, let it out through his moustache, and would have inhaled again, but the wind tore off the burning tobacco and whirled it away as it had done the straw.
But even these few puffs had cheered him.
“If we must spend the night here, we must!” he said with decision. “Wait a bit, I’ll arrange a flag as well,” he added, picking up the kerchief which he had thrown down in the sledge after taking it from round his collar, and drawing off his gloves and standing up on the front of the sledge and stretching himself to reach the strap, he tied the handkerchief to it with a tight knot.
The kerchief immediately began to flutter wildly, now clinging round the shaft, now suddenly streaming out, stretching and flapping.
“Just see what a fine flag!” said Vasíli Andréevich, admiring his handiwork and letting himself down into the sledge. “We should be warmer together, but there’s not room enough for two,” he added.
“I’ll find a place,” said Nikíta. “But I must cover up the horse first—he sweated so, poor thing. Let go!” he added, drawing the drugget from under Vasíli Andréevich.
Having got the drugget he folded it in two, and after taking off the breechband and pad, covered Mukhórty with it.