‘The sergeant’s here,’ he said gloomily.
At the moment I had completely forgotten that I had ordered him a couple of days ago to let me know in case the sergeant were to pass. It was impossible for me to understand immediately what was the connection between me and the delegate of authority.
‘What?’ I said in confusion.
‘I say the sergeant’s here,’ Yarmola repeated in the same hostile tone that he normally assumed towards me during the last days. ‘I saw him on the dam just now. He’s coming here.’
There was a rumble of wheels on the road outside. A long thin chocolate-coloured gelding with a hanging under lip, and an insulted look on its face, gravely trotted up with a tall, jolting, basket gig. There was only a single trace. The place of the other was supplied by a piece of stout rope. (Malicious tongues asserted that the sergeant had put this miserable contraption together on purpose to avoid any undesirable comments.) The sergeant himself held the reins, filling both seats with his enormous body, which was wrapped in a grey uniform made of smart military cloth.
‘Good-day to you, Evpsychyi Afrikanovich!’ I called, leaning out of the window.
‘Ah, good-day! How do you do?’ he answered in a loud, courteous, official baritone.
He drew up his horse, saluted with straightened palm, and bent his body forward with elephantine grace.
‘Come in for a moment. I’ve got a little business with you.’
The sergeant spread his hands wide and shook his head.