“Ah! you’re a better shot than I am,” said Riasantzeff pleasantly.
Yourii was delighted by such praise, although he always professed to care nothing for physical strength or skill. “I don’t know about better,” he observed carelessly, “It was just luck.”
By the time they reached the hut it was quite dark. The melon-field was immersed in gloom, and only the foremost rows of melons shimmered white in the firelight, casting long shadows. The horse stood, snorting, beside the hut, where a bright little fire of dried steppe-grass burnt and crackled. They could hear men talking and women laughing, and one voice, mellow and cheery in tone, seemed familiar to Yourii.
“Why, it’s Sanine,” said Riasantzeff, in astonishment. “How did he get here?”
They approached the fire. Grey-bearded Kousma, seated beside it, looked up, and nodded to welcome them.
“Any luck?” he asked, in his deep bass voice, through a drooping moustache.
“Just a bit,” replied Riasantzeff.
Sanine, sitting on a huge pumpkin, also raised his head and smiled at them.
“How is it that you are here?” asked Riasantzeff.
“Oh! Kousma Prokorovitch and I are old friends,” explained Sanine, smiling the more.