In the pure light of dawn the sea slumbered softly, reflecting the pearly clouds. At the cape, the half-awakened fishermen were moving about arranging the nets in the boats.
This every-day work was executed rapidly and in silence. The grey mass of the nets seemed to crawl from the sand into the boats, where it lay heaped at the bottom.
Sereja, as usual bare-headed and scantily clothed, was in the bows, shouting directions about the work in a hoarse voice, that betrayed last night's over-indulgence in vodka. The wind played with his ragged clothing, and his unkempt hair.
"Vassili, where are the green oars?" cried some one.
Vassili, as gloomy as a late autumn day, was arranging the net in the boat, and Sereja was watching him from behind. He was licking his lips, which meant that he was thirsty, and wanted a drink.
"Have you got any vodka?" he asked.
"Yes," muttered Vassili.
"All right! then I shall stay on dry land."
"All aboard?" they called out from the cape.
"Shove her off!" ordered Sereja, as he got out of the boat "Off you go!... I stay behind. Look out there!... Full ahead into the open, so as not to tangle the net ... and tell it out carefully. Don't make any knots.... Go ahead!"