“But what do you want the gun for?” sighs Semyon, sadly shaking his head.  “What sort of shooting is there now?  It’s still winter outside, and no game at all but crows and jackdaws.”

“Winter, indeed,” says Slyunka, hooing the ash out of his pipe with his finger, “it is early yet of course, but you never can tell with the snipe.  The snipe’s a bird that wants watching.  If you are unlucky, you may sit waiting at home, and miss his flying over, and then you must wait till autumn. . . .  It is a business!  The snipe is not a rook. . . .  Last year he was flying the week before Easter, while the year before we had to wait till the week after Easter!  Come, do us a favour, Semyon Mitritch, give us the gun.  Make us pray for you for ever.  As ill-luck would have it, Ignashka has pledged his gun for drink too.  Ah, when you drink you feel nothing, but now . . . ah, I wish I had never looked at it, the cursed vodka!  Truly it is the blood of Satan!  Give it us, Semyon Mitritch!”

“I won’t give it you,” says Semyon, clasping his yellow hands on his breast as though he were going to pray.  “You must act fairly, Filimonushka. . . .  A thing is not taken out of pawn just anyhow; you must pay the money. . . .  Besides, what do you want to kill birds for?  What’s the use?  It’s Lent now—­you are not going to eat them.”

Slyunka exchanges glances with Ryabov in embarrassment, sighs, and says:  “We would only go stand-shooting.”

“And what for?  It’s all foolishness.  You are not the sort of man to spend your time in foolishness. . . .  Ignashka, to be sure, is a man of no understanding, God has afflicted him, but you, thank the Lord, are an old man.  It’s time to prepare for your end.  Here, you ought to go to the midnight service.”

The allusion to his age visibly stings Slyunka.  He clears his throat, wrinkles up his forehead, and remains silent for a full minute.

“I say, Semyon Mitritch,” he says hotly, getting up and twitching not only in his right cheek but all over his face.  “It’s God’s truth. . . .  May the Almighty strike me dead, after Easter I shall get something from Stepan Kuzmitch for an axle, and I will pay you not one rouble but two!  May the Lord chastise me!  Before the holy image, I tell you, only give me the gun!”

“Gi-ive it,” Ryabov says in his growling bass; they can hear him breathing hard, and it seems that he would like to say a great deal, but cannot find the words.  “Gi-ive it.”

“No, brothers, and don’t ask,” sighs Semyon, shaking his head mournfully.  “Don’t lead me into sin.  I won’t give you the gun.  It’s not the fashion for a thing to be taken out of pawn and no money paid.  Besides—­why this indulgence?  Go your way and God bless you!”

Slyunka rubs his perspiring face with his sleeve and begins hotly swearing and entreating.  He crosses himself, holds out his hands to the ikon, calls his deceased father and mother to bear witness, but Semyon sighs and meekly looks as before at the string of bread rings.  In the end Ignashka Ryabov, hitherto motionless, gets up impulsively and bows down to the ground before the innkeeper, but even that has no effect on him.