The matting of the hut swayed in the wind, the bark of which it was built creaked, the red rag at the top of the mast was murmuring something. All these sounds were like a timid, endless, and uncertain lisping of a prayer. But the waves murmured—free and unmoved.
"And Sereja, does he still get drunk?" asked Vassili in a harsh voice.
"He is drunk every evening," replied Jakoff, pouring out some more vodka for his father.
"He'll come to no good! This is what a free and easy life leads to.... And you also, you will become like him."
Jakoff did not like Sereja, and he replied there-fore—
"I shall never become like him."
"No?" said Vassili, frowning. "I know what I am talking about ... How long have you been here? Already two months! You must soon be thinking of going back. And how much money have you saved?"
He swallowed with a look of discontent the vodka which his son had poured out for him, and taking his beard in his hand he tugged at it so hard that his head shook.
"I have not been able to save money in such a short time!" Jakoff argued with reason.
"If that's the case, you had better not stay here; go back to the village!"