The last sentence he understood to mean that I might possibly deal. He dashed his fork on the ground and came toward me, saying very angrily: “What’s that? Who are you? Who sent you here?”
“Old Blauben at the station.”
“And do you think you know anything about horses? You don’t know even how to look at them?”
“I have a chestnut that’s worth the whole string. I thought there was something to buy here. I suppose he thought I wanted meat for a bouillon factory. Good-night.”
“Wait, there, wait, you long imp of ignorance. Do you want to make a match with your chestnut? Where is it?”
I laughed. “If these crocks of yours saw mine they’d learn how to move. Here, smoke, you old owner of dogs’ meat;” and I handed him a cigar.
“Holy Virgin, what do I hear?” he cried, throwing up his hands, and putting a lantern near my face. He knew well enough now that I had come to trade; and was happy. But we kept up the farce a little longer; he abusing my chestnut and I his four nags.
His next object was to find out which horse I had selected; but I kept this from him carefully. At length I pointed to one that I would not have had as a gift.
“I’m going to give my dogs a treat one day, I think they could manage with that. How much for it, if I give you back the hide and the feet?”
He grinned. “You know a fine horse when you see one, after all,” he said. “You shall have him—three hundred roubles.” About £30 this.