Varlamov was talking about something, while he kept his eyes fixed.  The little stallion shifted from one leg to another impatiently.

“Semyon Alexandritch!” cried Panteley, taking off his hat.  “Allow us to send Styopka!  Emelyan, call out that Styopka should be sent.”

But now at last a man on horseback could be seen coming from the settlement.  Bending very much to one side and brandishing his whip above his head like a gallant young Caucasian, and wanting to astonish everyone by his horsemanship, he flew towards the waggons with the swiftness of a bird.

“That must be one of his circuit men,” said Panteley.  “He must have a hundred such horsemen or maybe more.”

Reaching the first waggon, he pulled up his horse, and taking off his hat, handed Varlamov a little book.  Varlamov took several papers out of the book, read them and cried: 

“And where is Ivantchuk’s letter?”

The horseman took the book back, looked at the papers and shrugged his shoulders.  He began saying something, probably justifying himself and asking to be allowed to ride back to the settlement again.  The little stallion suddenly stirred as though Varlamov had grown heavier.  Varlamov stirred too.

“Go along!” he cried angrily, and he waved his whip at the man.

Then he turned his horse round and, looking through the papers in the book, moved at a walking pace alongside the waggons.  When he reached the hindmost, Yegorushka strained his eyes to get a better look at him.  Varlamov was an elderly man.  His face, a simple Russian sunburnt face with a small grey beard, was red, wet with dew and covered with little blue veins; it had the same expression of businesslike coldness as Ivan Ivanitch’s face, the same look of fanatical zeal for business.  But yet what a difference could be felt between him and Kuzmitchov!  Uncle Ivan Ivanitch always had on his face, together with his business-like reserve, a look of anxiety and apprehension that he would not find Varlamov, that he would be late, that he would miss a good price; nothing of that sort, so characteristic of small and dependent persons, could be seen in the face or figure of Varlamov.  This man made the price himself, was not looking for anyone, and did not depend on anyone; however ordinary his exterior, yet in everything, even in the manner of holding his whip, there was a sense of power and habitual authority over the steppe.

As he rode by Yegorushka he did not glance at him.  Only the little stallion deigned to notice Yegorushka; he looked at him with his large foolish eyes, and even he showed no interest.  Panteley bowed to Varlamov; the latter noticed it, and without taking his eyes off the sheets of paper, said lisping: 

“How are you, old man?”

Varlamov’s conversation with the horseman and the way he had brandished his whip had evidently made an overwhelming impression on the whole party.  Everyone looked grave.  The man on horseback, cast down at the anger of the great man, remained stationary, with his hat off, and the rein loose by the foremost waggon; he was silent, and seemed unable to grasp that the day had begun so badly for him.