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indicating that he wasn’t about to argue. After catching their breath, they once again crawled upward to the sound of Crouper’s cries and whistles. They had to pause and rest another four times. When they finally emerged from the ravine, both the humans and the horses were exhausted.
    “Thank the…” was all Crouper managed to gasp; he spat back at the accursed ravine and went to check the horses under the hood.
    Steam rose from the little horses. They were in a lather, though it could hardly be seen: while they were making their way out of the ravine, twilight had descended. The exhausted doctor took off his hat, wiped off the sweat dripping from his head and brow, then took out a handkerchief and blew his nose like a horn. His thin white scarf had slipped out from under his coat and was dangling from his neck. The doctor scooped up a handful of snow and greedily stuffed it in his mouth. Crouper covered the horses, then kicked off his felt boots and shook out the snow that had gotten into them. Stumbling, the doctor climbed up onto the seat, leaned back, and sat with his face lifted to the falling snow.
    “Well now, we made it.” Crouper put his boots back on, sat down next to the doctor, and gave him a tired smile. “Let’s go?”
    “Let’s go!” the doctor almost screamed, fumbling for his cigarette case and matches in his deep, silk coat pockets, which were so delightful to the touch. The sensation of the familiar, soft, cozy silk calmed him and reassured him that the worst was now behind them, that the anxiety of the dangerous ravine was a thing of the past.
    Platon Ilich lit a cigarette with the special pleasure of a person resting after heavy work. His narrow, overwrought face exuded heat.
    “Want a cigarette?” he asked Crouper.
    “Ever so grateful yur ’onor, but we don’t smoke.” The driver tugged on the reins and the horses pulled weakly.
    “Why is that?”
    “Never happened to.” Crouper smiled a tired, birdlike smile. “I’ll drink vodka, but don’t take tobacco.”
    “Good for you!” The doctor smiled, just as tired, and blew smoke out of his full lips.
    The horses worked quietly, and the sled drove over a snow-laden road, laying down its own path. The forest ended at the ravine; ahead, through the whirling snow a sloping field with the occasional island of bushes and willow reeds could be discerned.
    “They’re exhausted, they are, my little horses.” Crouper slapped his mitten on the tarp. “Don’t worry, it’ll go easier now.”
    The road began a gentle turn to the left, and fortunately a milepost appeared here and there.
    “We pass the pond, and then the road’s straight through New Forest, cain’t hardly get lost,” Crouper explained.
    “Let’s do it, my man,” the doctor encouraged him.
    “They’ll rest a bit, and we’ll ride on.”
    Hauling the sled at an unhurried pace, the horses gradually recovered from the torturous hill. They rode along like this for about two versts. By then it was almost completely dark. The snow fell thick, and the wind was still.
    “Over there’s the mill pond.” Crouper pointed ahead with his whip, and the doctor thought he saw a large, snow-covered haystack in front of them.
    They drew closer, and the haystack turned out to be a bridge over a stream. As they crossed it, something scraped at the bottom of the sled. Crouper grabbed the steering rod to straighten the angle, but the sled abruptly swerved to the right; it careened off the bridge, stopping in a snowdrift.
    “Ay, damnation,” Crouper exclaimed.
    “Don’t tell me it’s the runner again,” muttered the doctor.
    Crouper jumped down, and his voice sounded:
    “All right now, c’mon! C’mon! C’mo-on!”
    The horses began backstepping obediently. Crouper threw his weight against the front of the sled and heaved. The sled barely made it out of the snowdrift; Crouper disappeared into the wintry shroud, but returned quickly:
    “It’s the runner, yur ’onor. Your