The horses were put in the shafts; but the driver lingered. He went into the drivers’ hut. It was hot and stifling, dark and oppressive in the hut; there was a smell of human beings, baking bread, and cabbage, and sheepskins. There were several drivers in the room; the cook was busy at the stove; on the top of the stove lay a sick man wrapped in sheepskins.
“Uncle Fyodor! hey, Uncle Fyodor!” said the driver as he came into the room. He was a young fellow, in a sheepskin coat with a whip stuck in his belt, and he was addressing the sick man.
“What are you asking Fedya?” one of the drivers interposed. “They are waiting for you in the carriage.”
“I want to ask him for his boots; I’ve worn mine into holes,” answered the young fellow, tossing back his hair and straightening the gloves in his belt. “Is he asleep? Hey, Uncle Fyodor?” he repeated, going up to the stove.