“That’s Smirnov.⁠ ⁠… That’s Gruzdev⁠ ⁠…” said the head master, mentioning the names of the schoolboys who flew by the pavilion.

“Bah! he’s all alive⁠—oh!” laughed the governor. “Look, gentlemen, our mayor is coming.⁠ ⁠… He is coming this way.⁠ ⁠… That’s a nuisance, he will talk our heads off now.”

A little thin old man, wearing a big cap and a fur-lined coat hanging open, came from the opposite bank towards the pavilion, avoiding the skaters. This was the mayor of the town, a merchant, Eremeyev by name, a millionaire and an old inhabitant of N⁠⸺. Flinging wide his arms and shrugging at the cold, he skipped along, knocking one golosh against the other, evidently in haste to get out of the wind. Halfway he suddenly bent down, stole up to some lady, and plucked at her sleeve from behind. When she looked round he skipped away, and probably delighted at having succeeded in frightening her, went off into a loud, aged laugh.

“Lively old fellow,” said the governor. “It’s a wonder he’s not skating.”

As he got near the pavilion the mayor fell into a little tripping trot, waved his hands, and, taking a run, slid along the ice in his huge golosh boots up to the very door.

“Yegor Ivanitch, you ought to get yourself some skates!” the governor greeted him.

“That’s just what I am thinking,” he answered in a squeaky, somewhat nasal tenor, taking off his cap. “I wish you good health, your Excellency! Your Holiness! Long life to all the other gentlemen and ladies! Here’s a frost! Yes, it is a frost, bother it! It’s deadly!”

Winking with his red, frozen eyes, Yegor Ivanitch stamped on the floor with his golosh boots and swung his arms together like a frozen cabman.

“Such a damnable frost, worse than any dog!” he went on talking, smiling all over his face. “It’s a real affliction!”

“It’s healthy,” said the governor; “frost strengthens a man and makes him vigorous.⁠ ⁠…”