“What a shame!” he said.  “A horse is like a brother to the peasant.  And you robbed him of it?  It is a great sin, I tell you.  If you go in for stealing horses, steal them from the landowners.  They are worse than dogs, and deserve anything.”

The talk went on, and the peasants from Podolsk told him that it required a great deal of cunning to steal a horse on an estate.

“You must know all the ins and outs of the place, and must have somebody on the spot to help you.”

Then it occurred to Ivan Mironov that he knew a landowner—­Sventizky; he had worked on his estate, and Sventizky, when paying him off, had deducted one rouble and a half for a broken tool.  He remembered well the grey horses which he used to drive at Sventizky’s.

Ivan Mironov called on Peter Nikolaevich pretending to ask for employment, but really in order to get the information he wanted.  He took precautions to make sure that the watchman was absent, and that the horses were standing in their boxes in the stable.  He brought the thieves to the place, and helped them to carry off the three horses.

They divided their gains, and Ivan Mironov returned to his wife with five roubles in his pocket.  He had nothing to do at home, having no horse to work in the field, and therefore continued to steal horses in company with professional horse-thieves and gipsies.

XI

Peter Nikolaevich Sventizky did his best to discover who had stolen his horses.  He knew somebody on the estate must have helped the thieves, and began to suspect all his staff.  He inquired who had slept out that night, and the gang of the working men told him Proshka had not been in the whole night.  Proshka, or Prokofy Nikolaevich, was a young fellow who had just finished his military service, handsome, and skilful in all he did; Peter Nikolaevich employed him at times as coachman.  The district constable was a friend of Peter Nikolaevich, as were the provincial head of the police, the marshal of the nobility, and also the rural councillor and the examining magistrate.  They all came to his house on his saint’s day, drinking the cherry brandy he offered them with pleasure, and eating the nice preserved mushrooms of all kinds to accompany the liqueurs.  They all sympathised with him in his trouble and tried to help him.

“You always used to take the side of the peasants,” said the district constable, “and there you are!  I was right in saying they are worse than wild beasts.  Flogging is the only way to keep them in order.  Well, you say it is all Proshka’s doings.  Is it not he who was your coachman sometimes?”

“Yes, that is he.”

“Will you kindly call him?”

Proshka was summoned before the constable, who began to examine him.

“Where were you that night?”

Proshka pushed back his hair, and his eyes sparkled.