'Well, then, friend Filofey; I hear you have horses. Bring a team of three here--we'll put them in my coach--it's a light one--and you drive me in to Tula. There's a moon now at night; it's light, and it's cool for driving. What sort of a road have you here?' 'The road? There's naught amiss with the road. To the main road it will be sixteen miles--not more.... There's one little place... a bit awkward; but naught amiss else.' 'What sort of little place is it that's awkward?' 'Well, we'll have to cross the river by the ford.' 'But are you thinking of going to Tula yourself?' inquired Yermolaï. 'Yes.' 'Oh!' commented my faithful servant with a shake of his head. 'Oh-oh!' he repeated; then he spat on the floor and walked out of the room. The expedition to Tula obviously no longer presented any features of interest to him; it had become for him a dull and unattractive business. 'Do you know the road well?' I said, addressing Filofey. 'Surely, we know the road! Only, so to say, please your honour, can't... so on the sudden, so to say...' It appeared that Yermolaï, on engaging Filofey, had stated that he could be sure that, fool as he was, he'd be paid... and nothing more! Filofey, fool as he was--in Yermolaï's words--was not satisfied with this statement alone. He demanded, of me fifty roubles--an exorbitant price; I offered him ten--a low price. We fell to haggling; Filofey at first was stubborn; then he began to come down, but slowly. Yermolaï entering for an instant began assuring me, 'that fool--('He's fond of the word, seemingly!' Filofey remarked in a low voice)--'that fool can't reckon money at all,' and reminded me how twenty years ago a posting tavern established by my mother at the crossing of two high-roads came to complete grief from the fact that the old house-serf who was put there to manage it positively did not understand reckoning money, but valued sums simply by the number of coins--in fact, gave silver coins in change for copper, though he would swear furiously all the time. 'Ugh, you Filofey! you're a regular Filofey!' Yermolaï jeered at last--and he went out, slamming the door angrily. Filofey made him no reply, as though admitting that to be called Filofey was--as a fact--not very clever of him, and that a man might fairly be reproached for such a name, though really it was the village priest was to blame in the matter for not having done better by him at his christening. At last we agreed, however, on the sum of twenty roubles. He went off for the horses, and an hour later brought five for me to choose from. The horses turned out to be fairly good, though their manes and tails were tangled, and their bellies round and taut as drums. With Filofey came two of his brothers, not in the least like him. Little, black-eyed, sharp-nosed fellows, they certainly produced the impression of 'smart chaps'; they talked a great deal, very fast--'clacked away,' as Yermolaï expressed it--but obeyed the elder brother.