“It is not nice for you, sir, to spend the night in here,” said the constable; “come into the other room. It’s dirty, but for one night it won’t matter. I’ll get a samovar from a peasant and heat it directly. I’ll heap up some hay for you, and then you go to sleep, and God bless you, your honor.”

A little later the examining magistrate was sitting in the kitchen drinking tea, while Loshadin, the constable, was standing at the door talking. He was an old man about sixty, short and very thin, bent and white, with a naive smile on his face and watery eyes, and he kept smacking with his lips as though he were sucking a sweetmeat. He was wearing a short sheepskin coat and high felt boots, and held his stick in his hands all the time. The youth of the examining magistrate aroused his compassion, and that was probably why he addressed him familiarly.

“The elder gave orders that he was to be informed when the police superintendent or the examining magistrate came,” he said, “so I suppose I must go now.⁠ ⁠… It’s nearly three miles to the volost , and the storm, the snowdrifts, are something terrible⁠—maybe one won’t get there before midnight. Ough! how the wind roars!”

“I don’t need the elder,” said Lyzhin. “There is nothing for him to do here.”

He looked at the old man with curiosity, and asked:

“Tell me, grandfather, how many years have you been constable?”