"More to the left!" said Tchelkache. "We shall soon be there, Yes!
. . . it is ended. We've done a good stroke of work. In a single
night, you understand--five hundred rubles gained! Isn't that doing
well, say?"
"Five hundred rubles!" repeated Gavrilo, distrustfully, but he was
immediately seized with fright and quickly asked, kicking the bales at
the bottom of the boat: "What are those things?"
"That's silk. A very dear thing. If it were to be sold for its real
value, it would bring a thousand rubles. But I don't raise the price
. . . clever that, eh?"
"Is it possible?" asked Gavrilo. "If I only had as much!"
He sighed at the thought of the country, of his miserable life, his
toil, his mother and all those far-distant and dear things for which he
had gone away to work, and for which he had suffered so much that
night. A wave of memory swept over him: he saw his village on a
hill-side with the river at the bottom, hidden by birches, willows,
mountain-ash and wild cherry trees. The picture breathed some life in
him and gave him a little strength.
"Oh, Lord, how much good it would do!" he sighed, sadly.
"Yes! I imagine that you'd very quickly board the train
and--good-evening! Oh, how the girls would love you, yonder, in the
village! You could have your pick.
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