‘There’s nothing curious there,’ grunted Yarmola, angrily slamming the door of the stove.
An hour later, when he had taken the samovar off the table and drunk his tea in the dark passage and was preparing to go home, I asked him:
‘What’s the witch’s name?’
‘Manuilikha,’ replied Yarmola with sullen rudeness.
Though he had never expressed his feelings, he seemed to have grown greatly attached to me. His affection came from our mutual passion for hunting, from my simple behaviour, the help I occasionally gave his perpetually hungry family, and above all, because I was the only person in the world who did not scold him for his drunkenness—a thing intolerable to Yarmola. That was why my determination to make the acquaintance of the witch put him into such an ugly temper, which he relieved only by sniffing more vigorously, and finally by going off to the back-staircase and kicking his dog Riabchik with all his might. Riabchik jumped aside and began to howl desperately, but immediately ran after Yarmola, still whining.
III
About three days after the weather grew warmer. Very early one morning Yarmola came into my room and said carelessly:
‘We shall have to clean the guns, sir.’
‘Why?’ I asked, stretching myself under the blankets.