The unfastened ear-lappets of his worn fur cap would hang down like the ears of a setter, and the moist sweat would stand under his little reddish nose.
Soon he would return to the station, and would quickly become intoxicated.
On his way back to the farm, the whole ten versts, he would drive at a fast gallop.

The little horse, driven to madness by the whip, would rear, as if possessed by a demon; the sled would sway, almost overturn, striking against poles, and Yanson, letting the reins go, would half sing, half exclaim abrupt, meaningless phrases in Esthonian.

But more often he would not sing, but with his teeth gritted together in an onrush of unspeakable rage, suffering and delight, he would drive silently on as though blind.

He would not notice those who passed him, he would not call to them to look out, he would not slacken his mad pace, either at the turns of the road or on the long slopes of the mountain roads.

How it happened at such times that he crushed no one, how he himself was never dashed to death in one of these mad rides, was inexplicable.
He would have been driven from this place, as he had been driven from other places, but he was cheap and other workmen were not better, and thus he remained there two years.