n to enjoy the fun of the
game.

Vyesovshchikov was not taken back to the factory, and went to work for
a lumberman. The whole day long he drove about the village with a pair
of black horses pulling planks and beams after them. The mother saw him
almost daily with the horses as they plodded along the road, their feet
trembling under the strain and dropping heavily upon the ground. They
were both old and bare-boned, their heads shook wearily and sadly, and
their dull, jaded eyes blinked heavily. Behind them jerkingly trailed
a long beam, or a pile of boards clattering loudly. And by their side
Nikolay trudged along, holding the slackened reins in his hand, ragged,
dirty, with heavy boots, his hat thrust back, uncouth as a stump just
turned up from the ground. He, too, shook his head and looked down at
his feet, refusing to see anything. His horses blindly ran into the
people and wagons going the opposite direction. Angry oaths buzzed
about him like hornets, and sinister shouts rent the air. He did not
raise his head, did not answer them, but went on, whistling a sharp,
shrill whistle, mumbling dully to the horses.

Every time that Andrey's comrades gathered at the mother's house to
read pamphlets or the new issue of the foreign papers, Nikolay came
also, sat down in a corner, and listened in silence for an hour or two.
When the reading was over the young people entered into long
discussions; but Vyesovshchikov took no part in the arguments. He
remained longer than the rest, and when alone, face to face with
Andrey, he glumly put to him the question:

"And who is the most to blame? The Czar?"

"The one to blame is he who first said: 'This is mine.' That man has
now been dead some several thousand years, and it's not worth the while
to bear him a grudge," said the Little Russian, jesting. His eyes,
however, had a perturbed expression.

"And how about the rich, and those who stand up for them? Are they
right?"

The Little Russian clapped his hands to his head; then pulled his
mustache, and spoke for a long time in simple language about life and
about the people. But from his talk it always appeared as if all the
people were to blame, and this did not satisfy Nikolay. Compressing his
thick lips tightly, he shook his head in demur, and declared that he
could not believe it was so, and that he did not understand it. He
left dissatisfied and gloomy. Once he said:

"No, there must be people to blame! I'