“No, you shouldn’t do it,” said Werner, and turned to Yanson. “Why don’t you smoke, friend?”
Suddenly Yanson’s wizened face became wofully wrinkled, as if somebody had pulled strings which set all the wrinkles in motion. And, as in a dream, he began to whimper, without tears, in a dry, strained voice:
“I don’t want to smoke. Aha! aha! aha! Why should I be hanged? Aha! aha! aha!”
They began to bustle about him. Tanya Kovalchuk, weeping freely, petted him on the arm, and adjusted the drooping earlaps of his worn fur cap.
“My dear, do not cry! My own! my dear! Poor, unfortunate little fellow!”
Musya looked aside. Tsiganok caught her glance and grinned, showing his teeth.
“What a queer fellow! He drinks tea, and yet feels cold,” he said, with an abrupt laugh. But suddenly his own face became bluish-black, like cast-iron, and his large yellow teeth flashed.
Suddenly the little cars trembled and slackened their speed. All, except Yanson and Kashirin, rose and sat down again quickly.
“Here is the station,” said Sergey.
It seemed to them as if all the air had been suddenly pumped out of the car, it became so difficult to breathe. The heart grew larger, making the chest almost burst, beating in the throat, tossing about madly—shouting in horror with its blood-filled voice. And the eyes looked upon the quivering floor, and the ears heard how the wheels were turning ever more slowly—the wheels slipped and turned again, and then suddenly—they stopped.