got him out of trouble. Many a time had they beaten him, many a time made him drunk with champagne and madeira, a wine he loved, and more than one exploit he knew of each of them, which would long ago have sent any ordinary man to Siberia. They often called Balaga in to their carousals, made him drink and dance with the gypsies, and many a thousand roubles of their money had passed through his hands. In their service, twenty times a year, he risked his life and his skin, and wore out more horses than they repaid him for in money. But he liked them, liked their furious driving, eighteen versts an hour, liked upsetting coachmen, and running down people on foot in Moscow, and always flew full gallop along the Moscow streets. He liked to hear behind him the wild shout of drunken voices, “Get on; get on!” when it was impossible to drive faster; liked to give a lash on the neck to a passing peasant who was already hastening out of his way more dead than alive. “Real gentlemen!” he thought.

Anatole and Dolohov liked Balaga, too, for his spirited driving, and because he liked the same things that they liked. With other people Balaga drove hard bargains; he would take as much as twenty-five roubles for a two hours’ drive, and rarely drove himself, generally sending one of his young men. But with his own gentlemen, as he called them, he always drove himself, and never asked for anything for the job.

Only after learning through their valets when money was plentiful, he would turn up once every few months in the morning; and sober, and bowing low, would ask them to help him out of his difficulties. The gentlemen always made him sit down.

“Please, help me out of a scrape, Fyodor Ivanovitch, or your excellency,” he would say. “I’m quite run out of horses; lend me what you can to go to the fair.”

And whenever they were flush of money Anatole and Dolohov would give him a thousand or two.

Balaga was a flaxen-headed, squat, snub-nosed peasant of seven and twenty, with a red face and a particularly red, thick neck, little sparkling eyes, and a little beard. He wore a fine blue silk-lined full coat, put on over a fur pelisse.

He crossed himself, facing the opposite corner, and went up to Dolohov, holding out his black, little hand.

“Respects to Fyodor Ivanovitch!” said he, bowing

“Good-day to you, brother. Well, here he comes!”

“Good-morning, your excellency!” he said to Anatole as he came in and to him, too, he held out his hand.

“I say, Balaga,” said Anatole, laying his hands on his shoulders, “do you care for me or not? Eh? Now’s the time to do me good service.… What sort of horses have you come with? Eh?”

“As the messenger bade me; your favourite beasts,” said Balaga.

“Come, Balaga, do you hear? You may kill all three of them; only get there in three hours. Eh?”

“If I kill them, how are we to get there?” said Balaga, winking.

“None of your jokes now. I’ll smash your face in!” cried Anatole suddenly, rolling his eyes.

“Jokes!” said the driver, laughing. “Do I grudge anything for my gentlemen? As fast as ever the horses can gallop we shall get there.”

“Ah!” said Anatole. “Well, sit down.”

“Come, sit down,” said Dolohov.