with my gun, you devil," says Slyunka, with his face
twitching, and his shoulders, shrugging. "May you choke, you plague,
you scoundrelly soul."

Swearing and shaking his fists, he goes out of the tavern with
Ryabov and stands still in the middle of the road.

"He won't give it, the damned brute," he says, in a weeping voice,
looking into Ryabov's face with an injured air.

"He won't give it," booms Ryabov.

The windows of the furthest huts, the starling cote on the tavern,
the tops of the poplars, and the cross on the church are all gleaming
with a bright golden flame. Now they can see only half of the sun,
which, as it goes to its night's rest, is winking, shedding a crimson
light, and seems laughing gleefully. Slyunka and Ryabov can see the
forest lying, a dark blur, to the right of the sun, a mile and a
half from the village, and tiny clouds flitting over the clear sky,
and they feel that the evening will be fine and still.

"Now is just the time," says Slyunka, with his face twitching. "It
would be nice to stand for an hour or two. He won't give it us, the
damned brute. May he . . ."

"For stand-shooting, now is the very time . . ." Ryabov articulated,
as though with an effort, stammering.

After standing still for a little they walk out of the village,
without saying a word to each other, and look towards the dark
streak of the forest. The whole sky above the forest is studded
with moving black spots, the rooks flying home to roost. The snow,
lying white here and there on the dark brown plough-land, is lightly
flecked with gold by the sun.

"This time last year I went stand-shooting in Zhivki," says Slyunka,
after a long silence. "I brought back three snipe."

Again there follows a silence. Both stand a long time and look
towards the forest, and then lazily move and walk along the muddy
road from the village.

"It's most likely the snipe haven't come yet," says Slyunka, "but
may be they are here."

"Kostka says they are not here yet."

"Maybe they are not, who can tell; one year is not like another.
But what mud!"

"But we ought to stand."

"To be sure we ought--why not?"

"We can stand and watch; it wouldn't be amiss to go to the forest
and have a look. If they are there we will tell Kostka, or maybe
get a gun ourselves and come to-morrow. What a misfortune, God
forgive me. It was the devil put it in my mind to take my gun to
the pothouse! I am more sorry than I can tell you, Ignashka."

C