. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
“This is a gelding?! I’m looking for a stallion!”
“A stallion?! But there’s so much trouble with the bastards! You have to watch their every step. Look at the gelding! It’s a real horse, not some pissy dog!”
“The gelding’s fine! But why’s it got ‘buckwheat’ all over its coat? They say the blood’s botched when the coat goes like that…”
“Utter rubbish… The mare was grey, the ‘procreator’ buckwheat… So there’s your buckwheat… He’s got grey from his mother, and now his father’s colour is coming through… From the procreator... There!”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
“Bought a mare yet, Petrovych?”
“Sure have...”
“How much d’you give for her?”
“My red nag, plus eleven rubles, half a quart of vodka and a hundred and eigh
