“That’s first-rate!” he said, “I had meant to get some duck-shooting to-morrow, so we’ll go together, shall we?” “I should like it very much,” replied Yourii. When he got home he spent nearly two hours examining his gun, fingering the lock, and taking aim at the lamp. He then carefully greased his old shooting-boots. On the following day, towards evening, Riasantzeff, fresh, hearty as ever, drove up in a _droschky_ with a smart bay to fetch Yourii. “Are you ready?” he called out to him through the open window. Yourii, who had already donned cartridge-belt and game bag, and carried his gun, came out, looking somewhat overweighted and ill at ease. “I’m ready, I’m ready,” he said. Riasantzeff, who was lightly and comfortably clad, seemed somewhat astonished at Yourii’s accoutrements. “You’ll find those things too heavy,” he said, smiling. “Take them all off and put them here. You needn’t wear them till we get there.” He helped Yourii to divest himself of his shooting-kit and placed them underneath the seat. Then they drove away at a good pace. The day was drawing to a close, but it was still warm and dusty. The _droschky_ swayed from side to side so that Yourii had to hold tightly to the seat. Riasantzeff talked and laughed the whole time, and Yourii was compelled to join in his merriment. When they got out into the fields where the stiff meadow-grass lightly brushed against their feet it was cooler, and there was no dust. On reaching a broad level field Riasantzeff pulled up the sweating horse and, placing his hand to his mouth, shouted, in a clear, ringing voice, “Kousma—a … Kousma—a—a!” At the extreme end of the field, like silhouettes, a row of little men could be descried who, at the sound of Riasantzeff’s voice, looked eagerly in his direction. One of the men then came across the field, walking carefully between the furrows. As he approached, Yourii saw that he was a burly, grey- haired peasant with a long beard and sinewy arms. He came up to them slowly, and said, with a smile, “You know how to shout, Anatole Pavlovitch!” “Good day, Kousma; how are you? Can I leave the horse with you?” “Yes, certainly you can,” said the peasant in a calm, friendly voice, as he caught hold of the horse’s bridle. “Come for a little shooting, eh? And who is that?” he asked, with a kindly glance at Yourii. “It is Nicolai Yegorovitch’s son,” replied Riasantzeff. “Ah, yes! I see that he is just like Ludmilla Nicolaijevna! Yes, yes!” Yourii was pleased to find that this genial old peasant knew his sister and spoke of her in such a simple, friendly way. “Now, then, let us go!” said Riasantzeff, in his cheery voice, as he walked first, after getting his gun and game-bag. “May you have luck!” cried Kousma, and then they could hear him coaxing the horse as he led it away to his hut.