He counted forty-two of them.
They were mowing slowly over the uneven, low-lying parts of the meadow, where there had been an old dam.
Levin recognized some of his own men.
Here was old Yermil in a very long white smock, bending forward to swing a scythe; there was a young fellow, Vaska, who had been a coachman of Levin's, taking every row with a wide sweep.
Here, too, was Tit, Levin's preceptor in the art of mowing, a thin little peasant.