“Well, who?” asked a young working man at the next table contemptuously.
“I am drunk!” exclaimed the drunkard in the red shirt. “And who am I, do you know, eh?”
“Yes, who are you? What sort of a bird are you?” asked the young working man in the black calico blouse derisively.
“I am Borodulin!” said the drunkard, and there was an expression on his face as if he had pronounced a famous name.
His neighbours roared with laughter, and shouted coarse, derisive words. The fellow in the red shirt cried angrily:
“What do you think? Is Borodulin, in your opinion, a peasant?”
The working man in the black blouse began to get annoyed. His lean cheeks grew red. He sprang from his place, and shouted angrily:
“Well, who are you? Answer.”
“I’m a peasant on my passport. An army reserve man. But that’s not all, I assure you,” said Borodulin.
“Well, who then are you?” repeated the young working man angrily, as he took a step towards him.