“Well, gentlemen, can’t we arrange it like this?” he says, kindled by a new idea that has flashed on him.  “The troop train is late,... as you see, it is not here,... so why shouldn’t you go as the troop train?** And I will let the troop train go as twenty-eight.  Eh?”

“If you like,” agrees the guard.

“Excellent!” the station-master says, delighted.  “In that case there is no need for you to wait here; you can set off at once.  I’ll dispatch you immediately.  Excellent!”

He salutes Malahin and runs off to his room, reading forms as he goes.  The old man is very much pleased by the conversation that has just taken place; he smiles and looks about the room as though looking for something else agreeable.

“We’ll have a drink, though,” he says, taking the guard’s arm.

“It seems a little early for drinking.”

“No, you must let me treat you to a glass in a friendly way.”

They both go to the refreshment bar.  After having a drink the guard spends a long time selecting something to eat.

He is a very stout, elderly man, with a puffy and discolored face.  His fatness is unpleasant, flabby-looking, and he is sallow as people are who drink too much and sleep irregularly.

“And now we might have a second glass,” says Malahin.  “It’s cold now, it’s no sin to drink.  Please take some.  So I can rely upon you, Mr. Guard, that there will be no hindrance or unpleasantness for the rest of the journey.  For you know in moving cattle every hour is precious.  To-day meat is one price; and to-morrow, look you, it will be another.  If you are a day or two late and don’t get your price, instead of a profit you get home—­excuse my saying it—­with out your breeches.  Pray take a little....  I rely on you, and as for standing you something or what you like, I shall be pleased to show you my respect at any time.”

After having fed the guard, Malahin goes back to the van.

“I have just got hold of the troop train,” he says to his son.  “We shall go quickly.  The guard says if we go all the way with that number we shall arrive at eight o’clock to-morrow evening.  If one does not bestir oneself, my boy, one gets nothing....  That’s so....  So you watch and learn....”

After the first bell a man with a face black with soot, in a blouse and filthy frayed trousers hanging very slack, comes to the door of the van.  This is the oiler, who had been creeping under the carriages and tapping the wheels with a hammer.

“Are these your vans of cattle?” he asks.

“Yes.  Why?”

“Why, because two of the vans are not safe.  They can’t go on, they must stay here to be repaired.”

“Oh, come, tell us another!  You simply want a drink, to get something out of me....  You should have said so.”

“As you please, only it is my duty to report it at once.”

Without indignation or protest, simply, almost mechanically, the old man takes two twenty-kopeck pieces out of his pocket and gives them to the oiler.  He takes them very calmly, too, and looking good-naturedly at the old man enters into conversation.