ance in a long
sheepskin coat, who was standing by his wagon, clapping together his
hands, in their shapeless leather gloves, to warm them. His long fair
beard was all white with frost.

"That peasant's beard's frozen," Kolya cried in a loud provocative voice
as he passed him.

"Lots of people's beards are frozen," the peasant replied, calmly and
sententiously.

"Don't provoke him," observed Smurov.

"It's all right; he won't be cross; he's a nice fellow. Good-by, Matvey."

"Good-by."

"Is your name Matvey?"

"Yes. Didn't you know?"

"No, I didn't. It was a guess."

"You don't say so! You are a schoolboy, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"You get whipped, I expect?"

"Nothing to speak of--sometimes."

"Does it hurt?"

"Well, yes, it does."

"Ech, what a life!" The peasant heaved a sigh from the bottom of his
heart.

"Good-by, Matvey."

"Good-by. You are a nice chap, that you are."

The boys went on.

"That was a nice peasant," Kolya observed to Smurov. "I like talking to
the peasants, and am always glad to do them justice."

"Why did you tell a lie, pretending we are thrashed?" asked Smurov.

"I had to say that to please him."

"How do you mean?"

"You know, Smurov, I don't like being asked the same thing twice. I like
people to understand at the first word. Some things can't be explained.
According to a peasant's notions, schoolboys are whipped, and must be
whipped. What would a schoolboy be if he were not whipped? And if I were
to tell him we are not, he'd be disappointed. But you don't understand
that. One has to know how to talk to the peasants."

"Only don't tease them, please, or you'll get into another scrape as you
did about that goose."

"So you're afraid?"

"Don't laugh, Kolya. Of course I'm afraid. My father would be awfully
cross. I am strictly forbidden to go out with you."

"Don't be uneasy, nothing will happen this time. Hallo, Natasha!" he
shouted to a market woman in one of the booths.

"Call me Natasha! What next! My name is Marya," the middle-aged market
woman shouted at him.

"I am so glad it's Marya. Good-by!"

"Ah, you young rascal! A brat like you to carry on so!"

"I'm in a hurry. I can't stay now. You shall tell me next Sunday." Kolya
waved his hand at her, as though she had attacked him and not he her.

"I've nothing to tell you next Sunday. You set upon me, you impudent young
monkey. I didn't say anything," bawled Marya. "You want a whipping, that's
what you w