A SPORTSMAN'S SKETCHES
the man with the strange nickname, Sutchok, broke in on my meditations.
Barelegged, ragged and dishevelled, Sutchok looked like a discharged stray house-serf of sixty years old.
'Have you a boat?' I asked him.
'I have a boat,' he answered in a hoarse, cracked voice; 'but it's a very poor one.'
'How so?'
'Its boards are split apart, and the rivets have come off the cracks.'
'That's no great disaster!' interposed Yermolaï; 'we can stuff them up with tow.'
'Of course you can,' Sutchok assented.
'And who are you?'
'I am the fisherman of the manor.'
'How is it, when you're a fisherman, your boat is in such bad condition?'
'There are no fish in our river.'
'Fish don't like slimy marshes,' observed my huntsman, with the air of an authority.
'Come,' I said to Yermolaï, 'go and get some tow, and make the boat right for us as soon as you can.'
Yermolaï went off.
'Well, in this way we may very likely go to the bottom,' I said to Vladimir.
'God is merciful,' he answered. 'Anyway, we must suppose that the pond is not deep.'
'No, it is not deep,' observed Sutchok, who spoke in a strange, far-away voice, as though he
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