"Buy your freedom, Hor; come, buy your freedom." ... But he declares,
the rogue, that he can't; has no money, he says.... As though that were
likely....'

The next day, directly after our morning tea, we started out hunting
again. As we were driving through the village, Mr. Polutikin ordered
the coachman to stop at a low-pitched cottage and called loudly,
'Kalinitch!' 'Coming, your honour, coming' sounded a voice from the
yard; 'I am tying on my shoes.' We went on at a walk; outside the
village a man of about forty over-took us. He was tall and thin, with a
small and erect head. It was Kalinitch. His good-humoured; swarthy
face, somewhat pitted with small-pox, pleased me from the first glance.
Kalinitch (as I learnt afterwards) went hunting every day with his
master, carried his bag, and sometimes also his gun, noted where game
was to be found, fetched water, built shanties, and gathered
strawberries, and ran behind the droshky; Mr. Polutikin could not stir
a step without him. Kalinitch was a man of the merriest and gentlest
disposition; he was constantly singing to himself in a low voice, and
looking carelessly about him. He spoke a little through his nose, with
a laughing twinkle in his light blue eyes, and he had a habit of
plucking at his scanty, wedge-shaped beard with his hand. He walked not
rapidly, but with long strides, leaning lightly on a long thin staff.
He addressed me more than once during the day, and he waited on me
without, obsequiousness, but he looked after his master as if he were a
child. When the unbearable heat drove us at mid-day to seek shelter, he
took us to his beehouse in the very heart of the forest. There
Kalinitch opened the little hut for us, which was hung round with
bunches of dry scented herbs. He made us comfortable on some dry hay,
and then put a kind of bag of network over his head, took a knife, a
little pot, and a smouldering stick, and went to the hive to cut us out