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"Ha-ha-ha!" he shouted. "Catch him! Hold him!" Kiruha laughed and enjoyed himself, but his expression was the same as it had been on dry land, stupid, with a look of astonishment on it as though someone had, unnoticed, stolen up behind him and hit him on the head with the butt-end of an axe.
"Eh! I am a Mazeppa? Yes? Take that, then; go and look for it." Dymov snatched the spoon out of Emelyan's hand and flung it far away. Kiruha, Vassya, and Styopka ran to look for it, while Emelyan fixed an imploring and questioning look on Panteley. His face suddenly became small and wrinkled; it began twitching, and the ex-singer began to cry like a child.
They've killed it well, never mind them. Dymov is a ruffian and Kiruha acted from foolishness never mind. . . . They are foolish people without understanding but there, don't mind them. Emelyan here never touches what he shouldn't; he never does; . . . that is true, . . . because he is a man of education, while they are stupid. . . . Emelyan, he doesn't touch things."
Dymov was lying on his stomach, with his head propped on his fists, looking into the fire. . . . Styopka's shadow was dancing over him, so that his handsome face was at one minute covered with darkness, at the next lighted up. . . . Kiruha and Vassya were wandering about at a little distance gathering dry grass and bark for the fire.
Konstantin almost shouted, speaking a note higher and shifting his position. "Now she loves me and is sad without me, and yet she would not marry me." "But eat," said Kiruha. "She would not marry me," Konstantin went on, not heeding him. "I have been struggling with her for three years!
The water was boiling by now and Styopka was skimming off the froth. "Is the fat ready?" Kiruha asked him in a whisper. "Wait a little. . . . Directly." Styopka, his eyes fixed on Panteley as though he were afraid that the latter might begin some story before he was back, ran to the waggons; soon he came back with a little wooden bowl and began pounding some lard in it.
Feeling that this was not sufficient to express his hatred, he thought a minute and added: "You blackguard! You son of a bitch!" But Dymov, as though nothing were the matter, took no further notice of Yegorushka, but swam off to Kiruha, shouting: "Ha-ha-ha! Let us catch fish! Mates, let us catch fish." "To be sure," Kiruha agreed; "there must be a lot of fish here."
On the left someone seemed to strike a match in the sky; a pale phosphorescent streak gleamed and went out. There was a sound as though someone very far away were walking over an iron roof, probably barefoot, for the iron gave a hollow rumble. "It's set in!" cried Kiruha.
His hands itch to kill, and that is why he does it," answered the old man; "but he oughtn't to kill a grass snake, that's true. . . . Dymov is a ruffian, we all know, he kills everything he comes across, and Kiruha did not interfere. He ought to have taken its part, but instead of that, he goes off into 'Ha-ha-ha! and 'Ho-ho-ho! . . . But don't be angry, Vassya. . . . Why be angry?
Dymov and Kiruha, looking at Styopka, undressed quickly and one after the other, laughing loudly in eager anticipation of their enjoyment, dropped into the water, and the quiet, modest little river resounded with snorting and splashing and shouting. Kiruha coughed, laughed and shouted as though they were trying to drown him, while Dymov chased him and tried to catch him by the leg.
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