The slovenly faces of the carriers
beamed with smiles, the work was easy, it went on smoothly, and
the leader of the chorus was in his best vein. Foma thought that
it would be fine to work thus in unison, with good comrades, to
the tune of a cheerful song, to get tired from work to drink a
glass of vodka and eat fat cabbage soup, prepared by the stout,
sprightly matron of the company.
"Quicker, boys, quicker!" rang out beside him someone's
unpleasant, hoarse voice.
Foma turned around. A stout man, with an enormous paunch, tapped
on the boards of the landing bridge with his cane, as he looked
at the carriers with his small eyes and said:
"Bawl less and work faster."
His face and neck were covered with perspiration; he wiped it off
every now and then with his left hand and breathed heavily, as
though he were going uphill.
Foma cast at the man a hostile look and thought:
"Others are working and he is sweating. And I am still worse than
he. I'm like a crow on the fence, good for nothing."
From each and every impression there immediately stood out in his
mind the painful thought of his unfitness for life.
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