It was, I think, about midnight when the old man and Vassily, who had gone in pursuit of the strayed horses, rode up to us. They had caught the horses, and found and overlook us. But how they managed to do this in the dark, blinding blizzard, across the bare steppe, has always remained a mystery to me. The old man with his elbows and legs jogging, trotted up on the shaft-horse (the other two horses were fastened to the yoke; horses cannot be left loose in a blizzard). On overtaking us, he began railing at my driver again.
“You see, you cross-eyed devil, what a …”
“Hey, Uncle Mitritch,” shouted the storyteller from the second sledge, “alive are you? … Come in to us.”
But the old man, making no answer, went on scolding. When he judged he had said enough, he rode up to the second sledge.
“Caught them all?” was asked him from the sledge.
“I should think so!”