"To me? Why, nothing. I like to hear a book read—if it's a holy one. We had a soldier in the village, African his name was; he'd begin to reel off the psalms sometimes, just like a drum—fine."
[8] A rouble is about two shillings.—TR.
"Well?" Semka said again, busy making a cigarette.
"Well—nothing. Only it was fine! Couldn't understand it, still it's the Word of God—don't hear it in the street like. Can't understand it, still you feel it's a word for the soul."
"Can't understand it, you say. Still you can see you're a blockhead," said Semka, imitating him.
"I know you're always swearing at me," sighed the other.
"How else can you talk to fools? They can't understand anything. Come on—let's have a go at this rotten plank."
The bath-house was falling to pieces, surrounded by splinters and drowned in clouds of dust, which had even made the leaves of the nearest trees a light grey. The July sun mercilessly scorched our backs and shoulders. One could not tell from our faces, streaked with dust and sweat, to which precisely of the four coloured races we belonged.
"The book's got silver on too," again began Mishka.
Semka raised his head and looked attentively in the direction of the summer-house.