“Hi, Seryoga! go and take your seat; the gentry are waiting,” the overseer of the posting-station shouted at the door.

Seryoga would have gone away without waiting for an answer, but the sick man’s eyes, while he was coughing, had told him he wanted to answer.

“You take the boots, Seryoga,” said he, stifling the cough and taking breath a minute. “Only buy me a stone when I die, do you hear?” he added huskily.

“Thanks, uncle, so I’ll take them; and as to the stone, ay, ay, I’ll buy it.”

“There, lads, you hear?” the sick man managed to articulate, and again he bent over and began choking.

“All right, we heard,” said one of the drivers. “Go along, Seryoga, or the overseer will be running after you again. The lady from Shirkin is ill.”