driven in a bit, nuts screwed up, posts painted, and orders given for yellow sand to be sprinkled at the level crossings. The woman at the neighbouring hut turned her old man out to weed. Semyon worked for a whole week. He put everything in order, mended his kaftan, cleaned and polished his brass plate until it fairly shone. Vasily also worked hard. The Chief arrived on a trolley, four men working the handles and the levers making the six wheels hum. The trolley travelled at twenty versts an hour, but the wheels squeaked. It reached Semyon's hut, and he ran out and reported in soldierly fashion. All appeared to be in repair.
"Have you been here long?" inquired the Chief.
"Since the second of May, your Excellency."
"All right. Thank you. And who is at hut No. 164?"
The traffic inspector (he was travelling with the Chief on the trolley) replied: "Vasily Spiridov."
"Spiridov, Spiridov. . . . Ah! is he the man against whom you made a note last year?"
"He is."
"Well, we will see Vasily Spiridov. Go on!" The workmen laid to the handles, and the trolley got under way. Semyon watched it, and thought, "There will be trouble between them and my neighbour."
About two hours later he started on his round. He saw some one coming along the line from the cutting. Something white showed on his head. Semyon began to look more attentively. It was Vasily. He had a stick in his hand, a small bundle on his shoulder, and his cheek was bound up in a handkerchief.
"Where are you off to?" cried Semyon.
Vasily came quite close. He was very pale, white as chalk, and his eyes had a wild look. Almost choking, he muttered: "To town—to Moscow—to the head office."
"Head office? Ah, you are going to complain, I suppose. Give it up! Vasily Stepanych, forget it."
"No, mate, I will not forget. It is too late. See! He struck me in the face, drew blood. So long as I live I will not forget. I will not leave it like this!"
Semyon took his hand. "Give it up, Stepanych. I am giving you good advice. You will not better things. . . ."
