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Updated: June 26, 2025
They were already seated by the tables, covered with luncheon, and were hungrily admiring the huge sturgeon, almost three yards in length, nicely sprinkled over with greens and large crabs. 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!
Rising on tiptoe, with his neck outstretched, he stared somewhere toward the end of the table, and his eyes flashed strangely, as though he saw there something which was pleasing to him. "Gordyeeff," said Yona Yushkov, softly. And all heads were turned toward the direction in which Yakov Tarasovich was staring. There, with his hands resting on the table, stood Foma.
"Silence!" roared Foma, with blood-shot eyes. "Now they're grunting." "Gentlemen!" rang out Mayakin's calm, malicious voice, like the screech of a smooth-file on iron. "Don't touch him! I entreat you earnestly, do not hinder him. Let him snarl. Let him amuse himself. His words cannot harm you." "Well, no, I humbly thank you!" cried Yushkov.
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