ugly little nag and talking to peasants at an hour when all decent
people were asleep.

"He is all right, a good man," said Panteley, looking towards the
settlement. "God give him health--a splendid gentleman, Semyon
Alexandritch. . . . It's people like that the earth rests upon.
That's true. . . . The cocks are not crowing yet, and he is already
up and about. . . . Another man would be asleep, or gallivanting
with visitors at home, but he is on the steppe all day, . . . on
his rounds. . . . He does not let things slip. . . . No-o! He's a
fine fellow. . ."

Varlamov was talking about something, while he kept his eyes fixed.
The little stallion shifted from one leg to another impatiently.

"Semyon Alexandritch!" cried Panteley, taking off his hat. "Allow
us to send Styopka! Emelyan, call out that Styopka should be sent."

But now at last a man on horseback could be seen coming from the
settlement. Bending very much to one side and brandishing his whip
above his head like a gallant young Caucasian, and wanting to
astonish everyone by his horsemanship, he flew towards the waggons
with the swiftness of a bird.

"That must be one of his circuit men," said Panteley. "He must have
a hundred such horsemen or maybe more."

Reaching the first waggon, he pulled up his horse, and taking off
his hat, handed Varlamov a little book. Varlamov took several papers
out of the book, read them and cried:

"And where is Ivantchuk's letter?"

The horseman took the book back, looked at the papers and shrugged
his shoulders. He began saying something, probably justifying himself
and asking to be allowed to ride back to the settlement again. The
little stallion suddenly stirred as though Varlamov had grown
heavier. Varlamov stirred too.

"Go along!" he cried angrily, and he waved his whip at the man.

Then he turned his horse round and, looking through the papers in
the book, moved at a walking pace alongside the waggons. When he
reached the hindmost, Yegorushka strained his eyes to get a better
look at him. Varlamov was an elderly man. His face, a simple Russian
sunburnt face with a small grey beard, was red, wet with dew and
covered with little blue veins; it had the same expression of
businesslike coldness as Ivan Ivanitch's face, the same look of
fanatical zeal for business. But yet what a difference could be
felt between him and Kuzmitchov! Uncle Ivan Ivanitch always had on
his face, together with his business-like reserve, a l