Kousma laughed, showing the yellow stumps of his decayed teeth as he slapped Sanine’s knee good-naturedly with his rough hand.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “Sit down here, Anatole Pavlovitch, and taste this melon. And you, my young master, what is your name?”
“Yourii Nicolaijevitch,” replied Yourii, pleasantly.
He felt somewhat embarrassed, but he at once took a liking to this gentle old peasant with his friendly speech, half Russian, half dialect.
“Yourii Nicolaijevitch! Aha! We must make each other’s acquaintance, eh? Sit you down, Yourii Nicolaijevitch.”
Yourii and Riasantzeff sat down by the fire on two big pumpkins.
“Now, then show us what you have shot,” said Kousma.
A heap of dead birds fell out of the game-bags, and the ground was dabbled with their blood. In the flickering firelight they had a weird, unpleasant look. The blood was almost black, and the claws seemed to move. Kousma took up a duck, and felt beneath its wings.
“That’s a fat one,” he said approvingly. “You might spare me a brace, Anatole Pavlovitch. What will you do with such a lot?”
“Have them all!” exclaimed Yourii, blushing.