The people on the
scaffolds and on the decks of the barges were making fast,
hewing, sawing, driving in nails; and big arms, with shirt
sleeves rolled up to the elbows were seen everywhere. The wind
scattered splinters of wood, and a varied, lively, brisk noise in
the air; the saw gnawed the wood, choking with wicked joy; the
beams, wounded by the axes, moaned and groaned drily; the boards
cracked sickly as they split from the blows they received; the
jointer squeaked maliciously. The iron clinking of the chains and
the groaning creaking of the sheaves joined the wrathful roaring
of the waves, and the wind howled loudly, scattering over the
river the noise of toil and drove the clouds across the sky.
"Mishka-a! The deuce take you!" cried someone from the top of the
scaffolding. And from the deck, a large-formed peasant, with his
head thrown upward, answered:
"Wh-a-at?" And the wind, playing with his long, flaxen beard,
flung it into his face.
"Hand us the end."
A resounding basso shouted as through a speaking-trumpet:
"See how you've fastened this board, you blind devil? Can't you
see? I'll rub your eyes for you!"
"Pull, my boys, come on!"
"Once more--brave--boys!" cried out some one in a loud,
beseeching voice.
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