a spotted cur dogged him. The peasant ploughed along, and the cur nosed about all over the field and kept digging at something. He dug and dug, and how he ho‑owled! What was the meaning of that? The peasant ran to him, looked into the hole, and there was—a kettle.”
“A ket‑tle?” asked the cook.
“Just listen to what comes next. The kettle was only a kettle, but in the kettle was—gold! An immense quantity. Well, and so the peasant became very rich.”
“Akh, lies!” said Tikhon Ilitch to himself, and began to listen eagerly to what was going to happen to the peasant next.
“The peasant got rich, and lost his head, just like any merchant—”
“Exactly like our Stiff-Leg,” interposed the cook.
Tikhon Ilitch grinned: he knew that, for a long time, he had been called “Stiff-Leg.” Every man has some nickname.
Oska went on: “Even richer than he. Yes. And then the dog takes and dies. What was he to do? He couldn’t bear it—he was sorry for the dog, and he had to bury him decently—”
An explosion of laughter rang out. The storyteller himself guffawed, and so did someone else—someone with an old man’s cough.
“Can it be Chaff?” thought Tikhon Ilitch, in perturbation. “Well, glory to God! I told that fool myself: ‘You’ll be coming back’!”
“The peasant went to the priest,” pursued Oska—“he went to the priest: ‘Thus and so, father, a dog has died—he must be buried.’ ”
Again the cook could not control herself and shrieked joyously: “Phew, you stick at nothing!”