"How he trips it—the dandy!"
The peasants cry, laughing;
They've soon recognized him;
The boaster who prated
So much of his illness
From drinking strange liquors.
"Ho! where has it gone to,
Your noble complaint?
Look how nimble he's getting!" 850
"Well, well, Little Father,
Now finish the story!"
"It's time to go home now,
My children,—God willing,
We'll meet again some day
And finish it then…."
The people disperse
As the dawn is approaching.
Our peasants begin
To bethink them of sleeping, 860
When all of a sudden
A "troika" [30] comes flying
From no one sees where,
With its silver bells ringing.
Within it is sitting
A plump little Barin,
His little mouth smoking
A little cigar.
The peasants draw up
In a line on the roadway, 870
Thus barring the passage
In front of the horses;
And, standing bareheaded,
Bow low to the Barin.
CHAPTER V
THE POMYÉSHCHICK
The "troika" is drawing
The local Pomyéshchick—
Gavríl Afanásich
Obólt-Oboldoóeff.
A portly Pomyéshchick,
With long grey moustaches,
Some sixty years old.
His bearing is stately,
His cheeks very rosy,
He wears a short top-coat, 10
Tight-fitting and braided,
Hungarian fashion;
And very wide trousers.
Gavríl Afanásich
Was probably startled
At seeing the peasants
Unflinchingly barring
The way to his horses;
He promptly produces
A loaded revolver 20
As bulky and round
As himself; and directs it
Upon the intruders:
"You brigands! You cut-throats!
Don't move, or I shoot!"
"How can we be brigands?"
The peasants say, laughing,
"No knives and no pitchforks,
No hatchets have we!"