“Why didn’t you let us know,” said Samoylenko angrily. “You dolts!”
“It’s all the same, don’t worry yourself . . .” said Von Koren. “Well, good-bye. God keep you.”
Samoylenko embraced Von Koren and made the sign of the cross over him three times.
“Don’t forget us, Kolya. . . . Write. . . . We shall look out for you next spring.”
“Good-bye, deacon,” said Von Koren, shaking hands with the deacon. “Thank you for your company and for your pleasant conversation. Think about the expedition.”
“Oh Lord, yes! to the ends of the earth,” laughed the deacon. “I’ve nothing against it.”
Von Koren recognised Laevsky in the darkness, and held out his hand without speaking. The boatmen were by now below, holding the boat, which was beating against the piles, though the breakwater screened it from the breakers. Von Koren went down the ladder, jumped into the boat, and sat at the helm.
“Write!” Samoylenko shouted to him. “Take care of yourself.”
“No one knows the real truth,” thought Laevsky, turning up the collar of his coat and thrusting his hands into his sleeves.
The boat turned briskly out of the harbour into the open sea. It vanished in the waves, but at once from a deep hollow glided up onto a high breaker, so that they could distinguish the men and even the oars. The boat moved three yards forward and was sucked two yards back.