“Is it Barnes?” asked the general. “Is it Palfrey, by any chance?”
Every one in the house began madly to invent names. Horses of every possible age, breed, and sex were considered; their names, hoofs, and harness were all thought of. People were frantically walking up and down in the house, garden, servants’ quarters, and kitchen, all scratching their heads, and searching for the right name.
Suddenly the steward was sent for again.
“Is it Herder?” they asked him. “Hocker? Hyde? Groome?”
“No, no, no,” answered Ivan, and, casting up his eyes, he went on thinking aloud.
“Steed—Charger—Horsely—Harness——”
“Papa!” cried a voice from the nursery. “Tracey! Bitter!”
The whole farm was now in an uproar. The impatient, agonised general promised five roubles to any one who would think of the right name, and a perfect mob began to follow Ivan Evceitch about.
“Bayley!” They cried to him. “Trotter! Hackett!”
Evening came at last, and still the name had not been found. The household went to bed without sending the telegram.