"What is it?" asked Abyedok, turning his sharp nose to the old man.
The snoring of those who were asleep, and the tinkling sound of pouring vodki was heard . . . The Deacon was murmuring something. The clouds swam low, so low that it seemed as if they would touch the roof of the house and would knock it over on the group of men.
"Ah! One feels sad when someone near at hand is dying," faltered the Captain, with his head down. No one answered him.
"He was the best among you . . . the cleverest, the most respectable.
I mourn for him."
"R-e-s-t with the Saints . . . Sing, you crooked hunchback!" roared the Deacon, digging his friend in the ribs.
"Be quiet!" shouted Abyedok, jumping vengefully to his feet.
"I will give him one on the head," proposed Martyanoff, raising his head from the ground.
"You are not asleep?" Aristid Fomich asked him very softly.
"Have you heard about our teacher?"
Martyanoff lazily got up from the ground, looked at the line of light coming out of the dosshouse, shook his head and silently sat down beside the Captain.
"Nothing particular . . . The man is dying remarked the Captain, shortly.