of fish, fish of mushrooms, macaroni of gunpowder; to make up for this,
not a single carrot went into the soup without taking the shape of a
rhombus or a trapeze. But, with the exception of these few and
insignificant failings, Mr. Polutikin was, as has been said already, an
excellent fellow.

On the first day of my acquaintance with Mr. Polutikin, he invited me
to stay the night at his house.

'It will be five miles farther to my house,' he added; 'it's a long way
to walk; let us first go to Hor's.' (The reader must excuse my omitting
his stammer.)

'Who is Hor?'

'A peasant of mine. He is quite close by here.'

We went in that direction. In a well-cultivated clearing in the middle
of the forest rose Hor's solitary homestead. It consisted of several
pine-wood buildings, enclosed by plank fences; a porch ran along the
front of the principal building, supported on slender posts. We went
in. We were met by a young lad of twenty, tall and good-looking.

'Ah, Fedya! is Hor at home?' Mr. Polutikin asked him.

'No. Hor has gone into town,' answered the lad, smiling and showing a
row of snow-white teeth. 'You would like the little cart brought out?'

'Yes, my boy, the little cart. And bring us some kvas.'