fresh wood; the engine-driver and
his assistant, very phlegmatic and imperturbable persons, perform
incomprehensible movements and don't hurry themselves. After standing
for a while by the engine, Yasha saunters lazily to the station; here
he looks at the eatables in the refreshment bar, reads aloud some quite
uninteresting notice, and goes back slowly to the cattle van. His face
expresses neither boredom nor desire; apparently he does not care where
he is, at home, in the van, or by the engine.

Towards evening the train stops near a big station. The lamps have only
just been lighted along the line; against the blue background in the
fresh limpid air the lights are bright and pale like stars; they are
only red and glowing under the station roof, where it is already dark.
All the lines are loaded up with carriages, and it seems that if another
train came in there would be no place for it. Yasha runs to the station
for boiling water to make the evening tea. Well-dressed ladies and
high-school boys are walking on the platform. If one looks into the
distance from the platform there are far-away lights twinkling in the
evening dusk on both sides of the station--that is the town. What town?
Yasha does not care to know. He sees only the dim lights and wretched
buildings beyond the station, hears the cabmen shouting, feels a
sharp, cold wind on his face, and imagines that the town is probably
disagreeable, uncomfortable, and dull.

While they are having tea, when it is quite dark and a lantern is
hanging on the wall again as on the previous evening, the train quivers
from a slight shock and begins moving backwards. After going a little
way it stops; they hear indistinct shouts, someone sets the chains
clanking near the buffers and shouts, "Ready!" The train moves and goes
forward. Ten minutes later it is dragged back again.

Getting out of the van, Malahin does not recognize his train. His eight
vans of bullocks are standing in the same row with some trolleys which
were not a part of the train before. Two or three of these are loaded
with rubble and the others are empty. The guards running to and fro on
the platform are strangers. They give unwilling and indistinct answers
to his questions. They have no thoughts to spare for Malahin; they are
in a hurry to get the train together so as to finish as soon as possible
and be back in the warmth.

"What number is this?" asks Malahin

"Number eighteen."

"And where is the tro