A SPORTSMAN'S SKETCHES
'Yes; I've come to look at the horses.'
'And what sort of horses, precisely, I make bold to ask?'
'Show me what you have.'
'With pleasure.'
We went into the stable. Some white pug-dogs got up from the hay and ran up to us, wagging their tails, and a long-bearded old goat walked away with an air of dissatisfaction; three stableboys, in strong but greasy sheepskins, bowed to us without speaking. To right and to left, in horse-boxes raised above the ground, stood nearly thirty horses, groomed to perfection. Pigeons fluttered cooing about the rafters.
'What, now, do you want a horse for? for driving or for breeding?' Sitnikov inquired of me.
'Oh, I'll see both sorts.'
'To be sure, to be sure,' the horsedealer commented, dwelling on each syllable. 'Petya, show the gentleman Ermine.'
We came out into the yard.
'But won't you let them bring you a bench out of the hut? . . . You don't want to sit down. . . . As you please.'
There was the thud of hoofs on the boards, the crack of a whip, and Petya, a swarthy fellow of forty, marked by small-pox, popped out of the stable with a rather well-shaped grey stallion, made it rear, ran twice round the yard with it, and adroitly pulled it up at the right place. Ermine stretched himself, snorted, raised his
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