And Kouzmá laughed in a queer way, as it seemed to Kornéy.
“A labourer? Why, what’s become of Peter?”
“Peter fell ill. She’s taken Justin from Kámenka—from her own village, you see.”
“Dear me!” said Kornéy.
When Kornéy was courting Martha, there had been some talk among the womenfolk about this Justin.
“Ah, yes, Kornéy Vasílyef!” Kouzmá went on; “the women have got quite out of hand nowadays.”
“No doubt about it,” muttered Kornéy. “But your grey horse has grown old,” he added, wishing to change the subject.
“I am not young myself. He matches his master,” answered Kouzmá, touching up the shaggy, bowlegged gelding with his whip.
Halfway to the village was an inn where Kornéy, having told Kouzmá to stop, went in. Kouzmá led his horses to an empty manger, and stood pulling the harness straight, without looking Kornéy’s way, but expecting to be called in to have a drink.
“Come in, won’t you, Daddy Kouzmá?” said Kornéy, coming out into the porch. “Come in and have a glass.”
“I don’t mind if I do,” answered Kouzmá, pretending not to be in a hurry.
Kornéy ordered a bottle of vodka, and offered some to Kouzmá. Kouzmá, who had eaten nothing since morning, soon got intoxicated; and immediately sidling up to Kornéy, began to repeat in a whisper what