and therefore disliked all rich folk, and especially Kornéy, of whom he spoke contemptuously.
Kornéy, in his cloth coat and sheepskin, came out of the station and stood in the porch, portmanteau in hand, a portly figure, puffing and looking about him. It was a calm, grey, slightly frosty morning.
“What, haven’t you got a fare, Daddy Kouzmá?” he asked. “Will you take me?”
“Yes, for a rouble I will.”
“Seventy kopecks is plenty.”
“There, now! He’s stuffed his own paunch, but wants to squeeze thirty kopecks out of a poor man!”
“Well, all right, then … drive up!” said Kornéy.
And, placing his portmanteau and bundle in the small sledge, he sat down, filling the whole of the back seat. Kouzmá remained on the box in front.
“All right, drive on.”
They drove across the ruts near the station and reached the smooth high road.
“Well, and how go things in the village—with you, I mean?” asked Kornéy.
“Why, not up to much.”
“How’s that? … And is my old mother still alive?”
“The old woman’s alive. She was at church t’other day. She’s alive, and so is your missis. … She’s right enough. She’s taken a new labourer.”