Whether it was due to the flickering light or because everyone wanted to make out the man's face first of all, it happened, strangely enough, that at the first glance at him they all saw, first of all, not his face nor his clothes, but his smile. It was an extraordinarily good-natured, broad, soft smile, like that of a baby on waking, one of those infectious smiles to which it is difficult not to respond by smiling too. The stranger, when they did get a good look at him, turned out to be a man of thirty, ugly and in no way remarkable. He was a tall Little Russian, with a long nose, long arms and long legs; everything about him seemed long except his neck, which was so short that it made him seem stooping. He was wearing a clean white shirt with an embroidered collar, white trousers, and new high boots, and in comparison with the waggoners he looked quite a dandy. In his arms he was carrying something big, white, and at the first glance strange-looking, and the stock of a gun also peeped out from behind his shoulder. Coming from the darkness into the circle of light, he stopped short as though petrified, and for half a minute looked at the waggoners as though he would have said: "Just look what a smile I have!" Then he took a step towards the fire, smiled still more radiantly and said: "Bread and salt, friends!" "You are very welcome!" Panteley answered for them all. The stranger put down by the fire what he was carrying in his arms --it was a dead bustard--and greeted them once more. They all went up to the bustard and began examining it. "A fine big bird; what did you kill it with?" asked Dymov. "Grape-shot. You can't get him with small shot, he won't let you get near enough. Buy it, friends! I will let you have it for twenty kopecks." "What use would it be to us? It's good roast, but I bet it would be tough boiled; you could not get your teeth into it. . . ." "Oh, what a pity! I would take it to the gentry at the farm; they would give me half a rouble for it. But it's a long way to go-- twelve miles!" The stranger sat down, took off his gun and laid it beside him. He seemed sleepy and languid; he sat smiling, and, screwing up his eyes at the firelight, apparently thinking of something very agreeable. They gave him a spoon; he began eating. "Who are you?" Dymov asked him. The stranger did not hear the question; he made no answer, and did not even glance at Dymov. Most likely this smiling man did not taste the flavour of the porridge either, for he seemed to eat it mechanically, lifting the spoon to his lips sometimes very full and sometimes quite empty. He was not drunk, but he seemed to have something nonsensical in his head. "I ask you who you are?" repeated Dymov. "I?" said the unknown, starting. "Konstantin Zvonik from Rovno. It's three miles from here." And anxious to show straight off that he was not quite an ordinary peasant, but something better, Konstantin hastened to add: "We keep bees and fatten pigs."