"Art thou on thy way home, pray?"—he asked Akím.
Akím halted.
"Yes."
"I 'll drive you there,—shall I?"
"All right, do."
Efrém moved aside, and Akím clambered into the cart. Efrém, who was jolly with drink, it appeared, set to lashing his miserable little nag with the ends of his rope reins; the horse advanced at a weary trot, incessantly twitching her unbridled muzzle.
They drove about a verst, without saying one word to each other. Akím sat with bowed head, and Efrém merely mumbled something to himself, now stimulating the horse to greater speed, now reining it in.
"Whither hast thou been without a hat, Semyónitch?"—he suddenly asked Akím, and, without waiting for a reply, he went on in an undertone:—"thou hast left it in a nice little dram-shop, that 's what. Thou 'rt a tippler; I know thee, and I love thee because thou art a tippler—'t was high time, long ago, to place thee under ecclesiastical censure, God is my witness; because 't is a bad business.... Hurrah!"—he shouted suddenly, at the top of his lungs,—"hurrah! hurrah!"
"Halt! halt!"—rang out a woman's voice close at hand.—"Halt!"
Akím glanced round. Across the fields, in the direction of the cart, a woman was running, so pale and dishevelled that he did not recognise her at first.