“Where are you going?” shouted the peasant who drove it.
“To Tara.”
“Give me ten sous, and I will take you.”
“No; it is too much. I will give eight.”
“Well, so let it be. Jump in quickly.”
He was set down in the street; and knocking at a house, inquired in the Russian fashion—“Have you horses to hire?”
“Yes—a pair. Where to?”
“To Irbit. I am a commercial traveler, and going to meet my master. I am behind my time, and wish to go as quickly as possible.”
No sooner had they set off than a snow-storm came on, and the driver lost his way. They wandered about all night in the forest, and it was impossible to describe the anguish and suffering Piotrowski endured.
“Return to Tara,” said he, as the day broke; “I will engage another sledge; and you need not expect any money from me, after the folly you have shown in losing your way.”