and noiselessly climb up the walls to the ceiling; but if
one looks more closely, horns and their shadows, long lean backs, dirty
hides, tails, eyes begin to stand out in the dusk. They are cattle and
their shadows. There are eight of them in the van. Some turn round and
stare at the men and swing their tails. Others try to stand or lie down
more comfortably. They are crowded. If one lies down the others must
stand and huddle closer. No manger, no halter, no litter, not a wisp of
hay....*

At last the old man pulls out of his pocket a silver watch and looks at
the time: a quarter past two.

"We have been here nearly two hours," he says, yawning. "Better go and
stir them up, or we may be here till morning. They have gone to sleep,
or goodness knows what they are up to."

The old man gets up and, followed by his long shadow, cautiously gets
down from the van into the darkness. He makes his way along beside the
train to the engine, and after passing some two dozen vans sees a red
open furnace; a human figure sits motionless facing it; its peaked cap,
nose, and knees are lighted up by the crimson glow, all the rest is
black and can scarcely be distinguished in the darkness.

"Are we going to stay here much longer?" asks the old man.

No answer. The motionless figure is evidently asleep. The old man clears
his throat impatiently and, shrinking from the penetrating damp, walks
round the engine, and as he does so the brilliant light of the two
engine lamps dazzles his eyes for an instant and makes the night even
blacker to him; he goes to the station.

The platform and steps of the station are wet. Here and there are white
patches of freshly fallen melting snow. In the station itself it is
light and as hot as a steam-bath. There is a smell of paraffin. Except
for the weighing-machine and a yellow seat on which a man wearing a
guard's uniform is asleep, there is no furniture in the place at all.
On the left are two wide-open doors. Through one of them the telegraphic
apparatus and a lamp with a green shade on it can be seen; through the
other, a small room, half of it taken up by a dark cupboard. In
this room the head guard and the engine-driver are sitting on the
window-sill. They are both feeling a cap with their fingers and
disputing.

"That's not real beaver, it's imitation," says the engine-driver. "Real
beaver is not like that. Five roubles would be a high price for the
whole cap, if you care to know!"

"You kno