They would dispute a little and lazily, and then out of the dark storehouse crept a lean, beardless fellow with high cheek-bones, in a long cloth coat girdled with a red belt all stuck round with tufts of wool. Respectfully removing his cap from his small head, he gazed in silence, with a dull expression in his deep-set eyes, at the round face of his master which was suffused with purple blood. The latter was saying in his thick harsh voice:
"Can you eat a gammon of ham?"
"How long shall I have for it?" asked Mishka practically, in his thin voice.
"Two hours."
"That will be difficult."
"Where is the difficulty?"
"Well, let me have a drop of beer with it."
"All right," said his master, and he would boast:
"You need not think that he has an empty stomach. No! In the morning he had two pounds of bread, and dinner at noon, as you know."
They brought the ham, and the spectators took their places. All the merchants were tightly enveloped in their thick fur-coats and looked like gigantic weights. They were people with big stomachs, but they all had small eyes and some had fatty tumors. An unconquerable feeling of boredom oppressed them all.