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Updated: May 20, 2025
At the sight of his wolf-like, angry face and his wrathful pose, the merchants again became silent for a moment. "What are you gaping at?" asked Foma, and again accompanied his question with a violent oath. "He's drunk!" said Bobrov, with a shake of the head. "And why was he invited?" whispered Reznikov, softly. "Foma Ignatyevich!" said Kononov, sedately, "you mustn't create any scandals.
Mayakin rose from his seat and went to the cabin, saying softly: "Keep an eye on him, he might fling himself overboard." "I am sorry for the fellow," said Bobrov, looking at Yakov Tarasovich as he departed. "No one is to blame for his madness," replied Reznikov, morosely. "And Yakov," whispered Zubov, nodding his head in the direction of Mayakin. "What about Yakov? He loses nothing through it."
"Yes, now he'll, ha, ha!" "He'll be his guardian, ha, ha, ha!" Their quiet laughter and whisper mingled with the groaning of the engine did not seem to reach Foma's ear. Motionlessly he stared into the distance before him with a dim look, and only his lips were slightly quivering. "His son has returned," whispered Bobrov. "I know his son," said Yashchurov. "I met him in Perm."
Tattered and crumpled he rocked about in the chair, striking his chest against the edge of the table, and began to whisper something. The merchants exchanged significant glances. Some, nudging one another in the sides, shook their heads at Foma in silence. Yakov Mayakin's face was dark and immobile as though hewn out of stone. "Shall we perhaps unbind him?" whispered Bobrov.
The passages between the islands about Sitka were called the "Straits" by the Russians, and in them the sea-otter skins were taken by the thousands. It was not unusual for a Russian hunting party consisting of a hundred bidarkas to take on one expedition 2,000 skins of the Morski bobrov, as they called the sea-otter.
"I am in my right mind!" he said, leaning back in his chair and staring at the merchants with troubled eyes. "I understand what I wanted. I wanted to speak the truth. I wanted to accuse you." He was again seized with emotion, and he suddenly jerked his hands in an effort to free them. "Eh! Hold on!" exclaimed Bobrov, seizing him by the shoulders. "Hold him."
Play 'Be Glorious!" The military orchestra, behind the engine, thundered out the march. And Makar Bobrov, the director and founder of the local commercial bank, began to hum in a pleasant basso, beating time with his fingers on his enormous paunch: "Be glorious, be glorious, our Russian Czar tra-rata! Boom!" "I invite you to the table, gentlemen! Please! Take pot-luck, he, he!
'Sergay Bobrov; he was a capital fellow; he took me under his wing as an ignoramus from the wilds. And Panteley Gornostaev is dead. All dead, all! 'Have you been living all the time in Moscow? You haven't been away to the country? 'To the country!... My country place is sold. 'Sold? 'By auction.... There! what a pity you didn't buy it. 'What are you going to live on, Piotr Petrovitch?
"Bobrov, Svinin, Kanapatiev, Khapakin, Trepakin, and Plieshakov." "Are they rich men?" "No, none of them. One of them may own twenty souls, and another thirty, but of gentry who own a hundred there are none." Chichikov reflected that he had indeed fallen into an aristocratic wilderness! "At all events, is the town far away?" he inquired. "About sixty versts.
"Tarasovich! don't be capricious!" "Sh! Silence! Gentlemen! Yakov Tarasovich will say a few words!" "Sh!" And just at the moment the noise subsided some one's loud, indignant whisper was heard: "How she pinched me, the carrion." And Bobrov inquired in his deep basso: "Where did she pinch you?"
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