ave no stamps. Total,
fourteen roubles, twenty kopecks."

Receiving the money, he writes something down, dries it with sand, and,
hurriedly snatching up a bundle of forms, goes quickly out of the room.

At ten o'clock in the evening Malahin gets an answer from the traffic
manager: "Give precedence."

Reading the telegram through, the old man winks significantly and, very
well pleased with himself, puts it in his pocket.

"Here," he says to Yasha, "look and learn."

At midnight his train goes on. The night is dark and cold like the
previous one; the waits at the stations are long. Yasha sits on the cape
and imperturbably strums on the accordion, while the old man is still
more eager to exert himself. At one of the stations he is overtaken by
a desire to lodge a complaint. At his request a gendarme sits down and
writes:

"November 10, 188-.--I, non-commissioned officer of the Z. section of
the N. police department of railways, Ilya Tchered, in accordance with
article II of the statute of May 19, 1871, have drawn up this protocol
at the station of X. as herewith follows.... "

"What am I to write next?" asks the gendarme.

Malahin lays out before him forms, postal and telegraph receipts,
accounts.... He does not know himself definitely what he wants of the
gendarme; he wants to describe in the protocol not any separate episode
but his whole journey, with all his losses and conversations with
station-masters--to describe it lengthily and vindictively.

"At the station of Z.," he says, "write that the station-master unlinked
my vans from the troop train because he did not like my countenance."

And he wants the gendarme to be sure to mention his countenance. The
latter listens wearily, and goes on writing without hearing him to the
end. He ends his protocol thus:

"The above deposition I, non-commissioned officer Tchered, have written
down in this protocol with a view to present it to the head of the Z.
section, and have handed a copy thereof to Gavril Malahin."

The old man takes the copy, adds it to the papers with which his side
pocket is stuffed, and, much pleased, goes back to his van.

In the morning Malahin wakes up again in a bad humor, but his wrath
vents itself not on Yasha but the cattle.

"The cattle are done for!" he grumbles. "They are done for! They are at
the last gasp! God be my judge! they will all die. Tfoo!"

The bullocks, who have had nothing to drink for many days, tortured by
thirst,