"It's a lot! If I had it, poor beggar that I am, I'd soon let it be known."
"At the village? . . ."
"Sure! without delay. . ."
Gavrilo let himself be carried away by his imagination. Tchelkache appeared crushed. His moustache hung down straight; his right side was all wet from the waves, his eyes were sunken in his head and without life. He was a pitiful and dull object. His likeness to a bird of prey had disappeared; self-abasement appeared in the very folds of his dirty blouse.
"I'm tired, worn out!"
"We are landing. . . Here we are."
Tchelkache abruptly turned the boat and guided it toward something black that arose from the water.
The sky was covered with clouds, and a fine, drizzling rain began to fall, pattering joyously on the crests of the waves.
"Stop! . . . Softly!" ordered Tchelkache.
The bow of the boat hit the hull of a vessel.