“No, I will myself, I will myself!” shrieked the little boy, pulling his hands, red with cold, out of his pockets, and seizing the cold leather reins.

“Only don’t be too long dressing yourself up. Look alive!” shouted Vasíli Andréevich, grinning at Nikíta.

“Only a moment, Father, Vasíli Andréevich!” replied Nikíta, and running quickly with his in-turned toes in his felt boots with their soles patched with felt, he hurried across the yard and into the workmen’s hut.

“Arínushka! Get my coat down from the stove. I’m going with the master,” he said, as he ran into the hut and took down his girdle from the nail on which it hung.

The workmen’s cook, who had had a sleep after dinner and was now getting the samovar ready for her husband, turned cheerfully to Nikíta, and infected by his hurry began to move as quickly as he did, got down his miserable worn-out cloth coat from the stove where it was drying, and began hurriedly shaking it out and smoothing it down.