Foma, standing on a heap of cable, looked over the heads of the workers and saw; between the barges, side by side with them, stood a third barge, black, slippery, damaged, wrapped in chains. It was warped all over, it seemed as though it swelled from some terrible disease and, impotent, clumsy, it was suspended between its companions, leaning against them. Its broken mast stood out mournfully in the centre; reddish streams of water, like blood, were running across the deck, which was covered with stains of rust. Everywhere on the deck lay heaps of iron, of black, wet stumps of wood, and of ropes.
“Raised?” asked Foma, not knowing what to say at the sight of this ugly, heavy mass, and again feeling offended at the thought that merely for the sake of raising this dirty, bruised monster from the water, his soul had foamed up with such joy.
“How’s the barge?” asked Foma, indefinitely, addressing the contractor.
“It’s pretty good! We must unload right away, and put a company of about twenty carpenters to work on it—they’ll bring it quickly into shape,” said the contractor in a consoling tone.
And the light-haired fellow, gaily and broadly smiling into Foma’s face, asked:
“Are we going to have any vodka?”
“Can’t you wait? You have time!” said the contractor, sternly. “Don’t you see—the man is tired.”
Then the peasants began to speak:
“Of course, he is tired!
“That wasn’t easy work!”