If Kholstomír remembered anything that night, it was the frolic that Vaska gave him. He threw over him a blanket, and galloped off. He was left till morning at the door of a tavern, with a muzhik’s horse. They licked each other. When it became light he went back to the herd, and itched all over.
“Something makes me itch fearfully,” he thought.
Five days passed. They brought a veterinary. He said cheerfully—
“The mange. You’ll have to dispose of him to the gypsies.”
“Better have his throat cut; only have it done today.”