Both women enter the hut, and coarse hands unused to dealing with small articles tremblingly lift the lid of a matchbox, which is a rarity in the Caucasus. The masculine-looking new-comer sits down on the doorstep with the evident intention of having a chat.
“And is your man at the school, Mother?” she asked.
“He’s always teaching the youngsters, Mother. But he writes that he’ll come home for the holidays,” said the cornet’s wife.
“Yes, he’s a clever man, one sees; it all comes useful.”
“Of course it does.”
“And my Lukáshka is at the cordon; they won’t let him come home,” said the visitor, though the cornet’s wife had known all this long ago. She wanted to talk about her Lukáshka whom she had lately fitted out for service in the Cossack regiment, and whom she wished to marry to the cornet’s daughter, Maryánka.
“So he’s at the cordon?”
“He is, Mother. He’s not been home since last holidays. The other day I sent him some shirts by Fómushkin. He says he’s all right, and that his superiors are satisfied. He says they are looking out for abreks again. Lukáshka is quite happy, he says.”
“Ah well, thank God,” said the cornet’s wife. “‘Snatcher’ is certainly the only word for him.” Lukáshka was surnamed “the Snatcher” because of his bravery in snatching a boy from a watery grave, and the cornet’s wife alluded to this, wishing in her turn to say something agreeable to Lukáshka’s mother.
“I thank God, Mother, that he’s a good son! He’s a fine fellow, everyone praises him,” says Lukáshka’s mother. “All I wish is to get him married; then I could die in peace.”