“He is a harsh old man, . .” muttered Panteley.  “It’s a pity he is so harsh!  But he is all right, a good man. . . .  He doesn’t abuse men for nothing. . . .  It’s no matter. . . .”

After examining the papers, Varlamov thrust the book into his pocket; the little stallion, as though he knew what was in his mind, without waiting for orders, started and dashed along the highroad.

VII

On the following night the waggoners had halted and were cooking their porridge.  On this occasion there was a sense of overwhelming oppression over everyone.  It was sultry; they all drank a great deal, but could not quench their thirst.  The moon was intensely crimson and sullen, as though it were sick.  The stars, too, were sullen, the mist was thicker, the distance more clouded.  Nature seemed as though languid and weighed down by some foreboding.

There was not the same liveliness and talk round the camp fire as there had been the day before.  All were dreary and spoke listlessly and without interest.  Panteley did nothing but sigh and complain of his feet, and continually alluded to impenitent deathbeds.

Dymov was lying on his stomach, chewing a straw in silence; there was an expression of disgust on his face as though the straw smelt unpleasant, a spiteful and exhausted look. . . .  Vassya complained that his jaw ached, and prophesied bad weather; Emelyan was not waving his arms, but sitting still and looking gloomily at the fire.  Yegorushka, too, was weary.  This slow travelling exhausted him, and the sultriness of the day had given him a headache.

While they were cooking the porridge, Dymov, to relieve his boredom, began quarrelling with his companions.

“Here he lolls, the lumpy face, and is the first to put his spoon in,” he said, looking spitefully at Emelyan.  “Greedy! always contrives to sit next the cauldron.  He’s been a church-singer, so he thinks he is a gentleman!  There are a lot of singers like you begging along the highroad!”

“What are you pestering me for?” asked Emelyan, looking at him angrily.

“To teach you not to be the first to dip into the cauldron.  Don’t think too much of yourself!”

“You are a fool, and that is all about it!” wheezed out Emelyan.

Knowing by experience how such conversations usually ended, Panteley and Vassya intervened and tried to persuade Dymov not to quarrel about nothing.

“A church-singer!” The bully would not desist, but laughed contemptuously.  “Anyone can sing like that—­sit in the church porch and sing ‘Give me alms, for Christ’s sake!’ Ugh! you are a nice fellow!”

Emelyan did not speak.  His silence had an irritating effect on Dymov.  He looked with still greater hatred at the ex-singer and said: 

“I don’t care to have anything to do with you, or I would show you what to think of yourself.”

“But why are you pushing me, you Mazeppa?” Emelyan cried, flaring up.  “Am I interfering with you?”