“May you choke with my gun, you devil,” says Slyunka, with his face twitching, and his shoulders, shrugging.  “May you choke, you plague, you scoundrelly soul.”

Swearing and shaking his fists, he goes out of the tavern with Ryabov and stands still in the middle of the road.

“He won’t give it, the damned brute,” he says, in a weeping voice, looking into Ryabov’s face with an injured air.

“He won’t give it,” booms Ryabov.

The windows of the furthest huts, the starling cote on the tavern, the tops of the poplars, and the cross on the church are all gleaming with a bright golden flame.  Now they can see only half of the sun, which, as it goes to its night’s rest, is winking, shedding a crimson light, and seems laughing gleefully.  Slyunka and Ryabov can see the forest lying, a dark blur, to the right of the sun, a mile and a half from the village, and tiny clouds flitting over the clear sky, and they feel that the evening will be fine and still.

“Now is just the time,” says Slyunka, with his face twitching.  “It would be nice to stand for an hour or two.  He won’t give it us, the damned brute.  May he . . .”

“For stand-shooting, now is the very time . . .”  Ryabov articulated, as though with an effort, stammering.

After standing still for a little they walk out of the village, without saying a word to each other, and look towards the dark streak of the forest.  The whole sky above the forest is studded with moving black spots, the rooks flying home to roost.  The snow, lying white here and there on the dark brown plough-land, is lightly flecked with gold by the sun.

“This time last year I went stand-shooting in Zhivki,” says Slyunka, after a long silence.  “I brought back three snipe.”

Again there follows a silence.  Both stand a long time and look towards the forest, and then lazily move and walk along the muddy road from the village.

“It’s most likely the snipe haven’t come yet,” says Slyunka, “but may be they are here.”

“Kostka says they are not here yet.”

“Maybe they are not, who can tell; one year is not like another.  But what mud!”

“But we ought to stand.”

“To be sure we ought—­why not?”

“We can stand and watch; it wouldn’t be amiss to go to the forest and have a look.  If they are there we will tell Kostka, or maybe get a gun ourselves and come to-morrow.  What a misfortune, God forgive me.  It was the devil put it in my mind to take my gun to the pothouse!  I am more sorry than I can tell you, Ignashka.”

Conversing thus, the sportsmen approach the forest.  The sun has set and left behind it a red streak like the glow of a fire, scattered here and there with clouds; there is no catching the colours of those clouds:  their edges are red, but they themselves are one minute grey, at the next lilac, at the next ashen.

In the forest, among the thick branches of fir-trees and under the birch bushes, it is dark, and only the outermost twigs on the side of the sun, with their fat buds and shining bark, stand out clearly in the air.  There is a smell of thawing snow and rotting leaves.  It is still; nothing stirs.  From the distance comes the subsiding caw of the rooks.