“I say, boys, it’s no use talking; you can’t trip _him_ up. He knows what he is about,” said some. “Jolkin knows more about the matter than he does,” said others; not offensively, however. Both sides were ready to make concessions. “Then, he’s got a lighter hand, besides having more in his head. I tell you that when it comes to stock, horses, or anything else, Koulikoff needn’t duck under to anybody.” “Nor need Jolkin, I tell you.” “There’s nobody like Koulikoff.” The new horse was selected and bought. It was a capital gelding--young, vigorous, and handsome; an irreproachable beast altogether. The bargaining began. The owner asked thirty roubles; the convicts wouldn’t give more than twenty-five. The higgling went on long and hotly. At length the convicts began laughing. “Does the money come out of your own purse?” said some. “What’s the good of all this?” “Do you want to save for the Government cashbox?” cried others. “But it’s money that belongs to us all, pals,” said one. “Us all! It’s plain enough that you needn’t trouble to grow idiots, they’ll come up of themselves without it.” At last the business was settled at twenty-eight roubles. The Major was informed, the purchase sanctioned. Bread and salt were brought at once, and the new boarder led in triumph into the jail. There was not one of the convicts, I think, that did not pat his neck or caress his head. The day we got him he was at once put to fetching water. All the convicts gazed on him curiously as he pulled at his barrel. Our waterman, the convict Roman, kept his eyes on the beast with a stupid sort of satisfaction. He was formerly a peasant, about fifty years of age, serious and silent, like all the Russian coachmen, whose behaviour would really seem to acquire some extra gravity by reason of their being always with horses. Roman was a quiet creature, affable all round, said little, took snuff from a box. He had taken care of the horses at the jail for some time before that. The one just bought was the third given into his charge since he came to the place. The coachman’s office fell, as a matter of course, to Roman; nobody would have dreamed of contesting his right to it. When the bay horse dropped and died, nobody dreamed of accusing Roman of imprudence, not even the Major. It was the will of God, that was all; as to Roman, he knew his business. That bay horse had become the pet of the jail at once. The convicts were not particularly tender fellows; but they could not help coming to pet him often. Sometimes when Roman, returning from the river, shut the great gate which the sub-officer had opened, Gniedko would stand quite still waiting for his driver, and turning to him as for orders. “Get along, you know the way,” Roman would cry to him. Then Gniedko would go off peaceably to the kitchen and stop there, and the cooks and other servants of the place would fill their buckets with water, which Gniedko seemed to know all about.