“_Uyde, Uyde, Uyde_. I am in!” shouted the old man. “Come in, neighbour Mark, Luke Mark. Come to see Daddy? On your way to the cordon?” At the sound of his master’s shout the hawk flapped his wings and pulled at his cord. The old man was fond of Lukáshka, who was the only man he excepted from his general contempt for the younger generation of Cossacks. Besides that, Lukáshka and his mother, as near neighbours, often gave the old man wine, clotted cream, and other home produce which Eróshka did not possess. Daddy Eróshka, who all his life had allowed himself to get carried away, always explained his infatuations from a practical point of view. “Well, why not?” he used to say to himself. “I’ll give them some fresh meat, or a bird, and they won’t forget Daddy: they’ll sometimes bring a cake or a piece of pie.” “Good morning, Mark! I am glad to see you,” shouted the old man cheerfully, and quickly putting down his bare feet he jumped off his bed and walked a step or two along the creaking floor, looked down at his out-turned toes, and suddenly, amused by the appearance of his feet, smiled, stamped with his bare heel on the ground, stamped again, and then performed a funny dance-step. “That’s clever, eh?” he asked, his small eyes glistening. Lukáshka smiled faintly. “Going back to the cordon?” asked the old man. “I have brought the _chikhir_ I promised you when we were at the cordon.” “May Christ save you!” said the old man, and he took up the extremely wide trousers that were lying on the floor, and his _beshmet_, put them on, fastened a strap round his waist, poured some water from an earthenware pot over his hands, wiped them on the old trousers, smoothed his beard with a bit of comb, and stopped in front of Lukáshka. “Ready,” he said. Lukáshka fetched a cup, wiped it and filled it with wine, and then handed it to the old man. “Your health! To the Father and the Son!” said the old man, accepting the wine with solemnity. “May you have what you desire, may you always be a hero, and obtain a cross.” Lukáshka also drank a little after repeating a prayer, and then put the wine on the table. The old man rose and brought out some dried fish which he laid on the threshold, where he beat it with a stick to make it tender; then, having put it with his horny hands on a blue plate (his only one), he placed it on the table. “I have all I want. I have victuals, thank God!” he said proudly. “Well, and what of Mósev?” he added. Lukáshka, evidently wishing to know the old man’s opinion, told him how the officer had taken the gun from him. “Never mind the gun,” said the old man. “If you don’t give the gun you will get no reward.” “But they say, Daddy, it’s little reward a fellow gets when he is not yet a mounted Cossack; and the gun is a fine one, a Crimean, worth eighty rubles.” “Eh, let it go! I had a dispute like that with an officer, he wanted my horse. ‘Give it me and you’ll be made a cornet,’ says he. I wouldn’t, and I got nothing!”