Drexel followed through a dark room, which a sleepy rustling told him was inhabitated by hens, into the peasants’ one living room—a room with an earthen floor, walls of mud-plastered logs and a ceiling that brushed the head. A well-built, shaggy old man, and a younger man and woman, evidently his son and daughter-in-law, received Drexel. They were dressed practically as by day, for the Russian peasant is too poor to possess many bedclothes and he perforce sleeps in his day garments for the sake of warmth.
“Will my lord sit down?” quaveringly asked the old man, pulling forward a rough-hewn bench. All were agitated by the strangeness of a richly-dressed city man calling at their house at dead of night; and they wavered between the peasant’s natural courtesy and fear of some disaster this visit might portend.
Drexel’s exhausted body collapsed upon the rude seat, and the three formed a staring semi-circle. His eyes fixed upon the father as being nearest his size.
“I want you,” said he, “to sell me a suit of your clothes.”
“Sell you this suit of clothes!” cried the old man.
“No, not that suit,” said Drexel wearily, eyeing with disfavour the worn and greasy sheepskin coat. “I want your other suit.”
“But this is the only suit I have.”
Drexel shuddered. “Then I guess I’ll have to buy it. How much did it cost?”
“Ten rubles, my lord—when it was new.”
Drexel drew out his purse and laid down a note. “There’s a hundred rubles.”