"They ought to have begun by now."
Sitanov flourished his right hand, the Mordovan raised his left for defense, and received a straight blow under the right arm from Sitanov's left hand. He gasped, retired, and exclaimed in a tone of satisfaction:
"He is young, but he is no fool!"
They began to leap upon one another, striking each other's breasts with blows from their mighty fists. In a few minutes not only our own people, but strangers began to cry excitedly:
"Get your blows in quicker, image-painter! Fix him up, embosser."
The Mordovan was a little stronger than Sitanov, but as he was considerably the heavier, he could not deal such swift blows, and received two or three to every one he gave. But his seasoned body apparently did not suffer much, and he was laughing and exclaiming all the time, when, suddenly, with a heavy upward blow he put Sitanov's right arm out of joint from the shoulder.
"Part them; it is a draw!" cried several voices, and, breaking the circle, the crowd gathered round the pugilists.
"He is not very strong but he is skilful, the image-painter," said the Mordovan good-naturedly. "He will make a good boxer, and that I say before the whole world!"
The elder persons began a general wrestling match, and I took Sitanov to the Feldsher bone-setter. His deed had raised him still higher in my esteem, had increased my sympathy with him, and his importance in my eyes.
He was, in the main, very upright and honorable, and he felt that he had only done his duty, but the graceless Kapendiukhin made fun of him lightly.