‘Scou-oundrels, scou-oundrels!’ thereupon came the sound of another voice from within, and at the same moment there appeared on the steps--also in a grey smoking pea-jacket and pyjamas--actually, unmistakably, the real Gubaryov himself, Stepan Nikolaevitch Gubaryov. ‘Filthy louts!’ he went on in imitation of his brother (it turned out that the first gentleman was his elder brother, the man of the old school, famous for his fists, who had managed his estate). ‘Flogging’s what they want, that’s it; a tap or two on the snout, that’s the sort of freedom for them.... Self-government indeed.... I’d let them know it.... But where is that M’sieu Roston?... What is he thinking about?... It’s his business, the lazy scamp ... to see we’re not put to inconvenience.’ ‘Well, I told you, brother,’ began the elder Gubaryov, ‘that he was a lazy scamp, no good in fact! But there, for the sake of old times, you ... M’sieu Roston, M’sieu Roston!... Where have you got to?’ ‘Roston! Roston!’ bawled the younger, the great Gubaryov. ‘Give a good call for him, do brother Dorimedont Nikolaitch!’ ‘Well, I am shouting for him, Stepan Nikolaitch! M’sieu Roston!’ ‘Here I am, here I am, here I am!’ was heard a hurried voice, and round the corner of the hut skipped Bambaev. Litvinov fairly gasped. On the unlucky enthusiast a shabby braided coat, with holes in the elbows, dangled ruefully; his features had not exactly changed, but they looked pinched and drawn together; his over-anxious little eyes expressed a cringing timorousness and hungry servility; but his dyed whiskers stood out as of old above his swollen lips. The Gubaryov brothers with one accord promptly set to scolding him from the top of the steps; he stopped, facing them below, in the mud, and with his spine curved deprecatingly, he tried to propitiate them with a little nervous smile, kneading his cap in his red fingers, shifting from one foot to the other, and muttering that the horses would be here directly.... But the brothers did not cease, till the younger at last cast his eyes upon Litvinov. Whether he recognised Litvinov, or whether he felt ashamed before a stranger, anyway he turned abruptly on his heels like a bear, and gnawing his beard, went into the station hut; his brother held his tongue at once, and he too, turning like a bear, followed him in. The great Gubaryov, evidently, had not lost his influence even in his own country. Bambaev was slowly moving after the brothers.... Litvinov called him by his name. He looked round, lifted up his head, and recognising Litvinov, positively flew at him with outstretched arms; but when he had run up to the carriage, he clutched at the carriage door, leaned over it, and began sobbing violently. ‘There, there, Bambaev,’ protested Litvinov, bending over him and patting him on the shoulder. But he went on sobbing. ‘You see ... you see ... to what....’ he muttered brokenly. ‘Bambaev!’ thundered the brothers from the hut.