“Are you long here?” asked the master.
“Since the second of May, your honor.”
“Very well, thank you. And who is at Number 164?”
The track-master who rode with him on the draisine replied: “Vasili Spiridov.”
“Spiridov, Spiridov.—Oh, the one you reported?”
“The very same.”
“Very well, let us have a look at Vasili Spiridov. Go ahead.”
The workmen leaned upon the handles and the draisine flew farther. “There will be a fight between them and the neighbor,” thought Semen, looking after the disappearing draisine.
About two hours later Semen went on his rounds. He saw that some one was coming toward him, walking over the railroad bed, and there was something white visible on his head. Semen strained his eyes to see who it was—Vasili; in his hand he carried a stick and a small bundle was slung across his shoulders, and one cheek was tied up with a white kerchief.
“Where are you going, neighbor?” Semen shouted to him.