“I’ve been forester, my lad, for thirty years, and I couldn’t tell you what I have had to put up with from wicked men.  There have been lots and lots of them here.  The hut’s on a track, it’s a cart-road, and that brings them, the devils.  Every sort of ruffian turns up, and without taking off his cap or making the sign of the cross, bursts straight in upon one with:  ’Give us some bread, you old so-and-so.’  And where am I to get bread for him?  What claim has he?  Am I a millionaire to feed every drunkard that passes?  They are half-blind with spite. . . .  They have no cross on them, the devils . . . .  They’ll give you a clout on the ear and not think twice about it:  ‘Give us bread!’ Well, one gives it. . . .  One is not going to fight with them, the idols!  Some of them are two yards across the shoulders, and a great fist as big as your boot, and you see the sort of figure I am.  One of them could smash me with his little finger. . . .  Well, one gives him bread and he gobbles it up, and stretches out full length across the hut with not a word of thanks.  And there are some that ask for money.  ’Tell me, where is your money?’ As though I had money!  How should I come by it?”

“A forester and no money!” laughed the hunter.  “You get wages every month, and I’ll be bound you sell timber on the sly.”

Artyom took a timid sideway glance at his visitor and twitched his beard as a magpie twitches her tail.

“You are still young to say a thing like that to me,” he said.  “You will have to answer to God for those words.  Whom may your people be?  Where do you come from?”

“I am from Vyazovka.  I am the son of Nefed the village elder.”

“You have gone out for sport with your gun.  I used to like sport, too, when I was young.  H’m!  Ah, our sins are grievous,” said Artyom, with a yawn.  “It’s a sad thing!  There are few good folks, but villains and murderers no end—­God have mercy upon us.”

“You seem to be frightened of me, too. . . .”

“Come, what next!  What should I be afraid of you for?  I see. . . .  I understand. . . .  You came in, and not just anyhow, but you made the sign of the cross, you bowed, all decent and proper. . . .  I understand. . . .  One can give you bread. . . .  I am a widower, I don’t heat the stove, I sold the samovar. . . .  I am too poor to keep meat or anything else, but bread you are welcome to.”

At that moment something began growling under the bench:  the growl was followed by a hiss.  Artyom started, drew up his legs, and looked enquiringly at the hunter.

“It’s my dog worrying your cat,” said the hunter.  “You devils!” he shouted under the bench.  “Lie down.  You’ll be beaten.  I say, your cat’s thin, mate!  She is nothing but skin and bone.”

“She is old, it is time she was dead. . . .  So you say you are from Vyazovka?”

“I see you don’t feed her.  Though she’s a cat she’s a creature . . . every breathing thing.  You should have pity on her!”