"That's right! Give it to him!" said watchmaker Yakubov, lighting a cigarette.
The squint-eyed embroiderer Zina upheld the tall, yellow-faced watchmaker.
"Perhaps we shall have peace after this. You couldn't have a single quiet moment in the yard."
Raspopov turned to Yevsey, and said:
"They say he's a wonder at imitating people."
"Of course," rejoined the furrier's cook. "Such a little devil! He makes sport of everybody."
A dull scraping sound came from the shed, as if a sack filled with something soft were being dragged over the old boards of the floor. At the same time the people heard the panting, hoarse voice of Kuzin and Anatol's cries, which now grew feebler and less frequent.
"Forgive me! Oh! Help me—I won't do it again—Oh, God!"
His words became indistinct and flowed together into a thick choking groan. Yevsey trembled, remembering the pain of the beatings he used to receive. The talk of the onlookers stirred a confused feeling in him. It was fearful to stand among people who only the day before had willingly and gaily taken delight in the lively little fellow, and who now looked on with pleasure while he was being beaten. At this moment these half-sick people, surly and worn out with work, seemed more comprehensible to him. He believed that now none of them shammed, but were sincere in the curiosity with which they witnessed the torture of a human being. He felt a little sorry for Anatol, yet it was pleasant to hear his groans. The thought passed through his mind that now he would become quieter and more companionable.
Suddenly Nikolay the furrier appeared, a short black curly-headed man with long arms. As always daring and respecting nobody, he thrust the people aside, walked into the shed, and from there his coarse voice was heard crying out twice: