IT was three o'clock in the night. The postman, ready to set off, in his
cap and his coat, with a rusty sword in his hand, was standing near the
door, waiting for the driver to finish putting the mail bags into the
cart which had just been brought round with three horses. The sleepy
postmaster sat at his table, which was like a counter; he was filling up
a form and saying:

"My nephew, the student, wants to go to the station at once. So look
here, Ignatyev, let him get into the mail cart and take him with you to
the station: though it is against the regulations to take people with
the mail, what's one to do? It's better for him to drive with you free
than for me to hire horses for him."

"Ready!" they heard a shout from the yard.

"Well, go then, and God be with you," said the postmaster. "Which driver
is going?"

"Semyon Glazov."

"Come, sign the receipt."

The postman signed the receipt and went out. At the entrance of the
post-office there was the dark outline of a cart and three hors es.
The horses were standing still except that one of the tracehorses kept
uneasily shifting from one leg to the other and tossing its head, making
the bell clang from time to time. The cart with the mail bags looked
like a patch of darkness. Two silhouettes were moving lazily beside it:
the student with a portmanteau in his hand and a driver. The latter was
smoking a short pipe; the light of the pipe moved about in the darkness,