Semyon told him all.
“Where are you off to?”
“I cannot tell you, sir.”
“Idiot! What do you mean by ‘cannot tell you?’”
“I mean what I say, your Excellency. There is nowhere for me to go to. I must hunt for work, sir.”
The station-master looked at him, thought a bit, and said: “See here, friend, stay here a while at the station. You are married, I think. Where is your wife?”
“Yes, your Excellency, I am married. My wife is at Kursk, in service with a merchant.”
“Well, write to your wife to come here. I will give you a free pass for her. There is a position as track-walker open. I will speak to the Chief on your behalf.”
“I shall be very grateful to you, your Excellency,” replied Semyon.
He stayed at the station, helped in the kitchen, cut firewood, kept the yard clean, and swept the platform. In a fortnight’s time his wife arrived, and Semyon went on a hand-trolley to his hut. The hut was a new one and warm, with as much wood as he wanted. There was a little vegetable garden, the legacy of former track-walkers, and there was about half a dessiatin of ploughed land on either side of the railway embankment. Semyon was rejoiced. He began to think of doing some farming, of purchasing a cow and a horse.