Trofim Zubov, tying a napkin around his neck, looked
at the monster fish with happy, sweetly half-shut eyes, and said
to his neighbour, the flour merchant, Yona Yushkov:
"Yona Nikiforich! Look, it's a regular whale! It's big enough to
serve as a casket for your person, eh? Ha, ha! You could creep
into it as a foot into a boot, eh? Ha, ha!"
The small-bodied and plump Yona carefully stretched out his short
little hand toward the silver pail filled with fresh caviar,
smacked his lips greedily, and squinted at the bottles before
him, fearing lest he might overturn them.
Opposite Kononov, on a trestle, stood a half-vedro barrel of old
vodka, imported from Poland; in a huge silver-mounted shell lay
oysters, and a certain particoloured cake, in the shape of a
tower, stood out above all the viands.
"Gentlemen! I entreat you! Help yourselves to whatever you
please!" cried Kononov. "I have here everything at once to suit
the taste of everyone. There is our own, Russian stuff, and there
is foreign, all at once! That's the best way! Who wishes
anything? Does anybody want snails, or these crabs, eh? They're
from India, I am told.
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