The singers looked at him in a languid, careless way, and he began to lose his temper. Suddenly one of the trebles pulled another’s ear, which instantly resulted in a quarrel.
“Ivàn Stepànych,” said one of the most troublesome, “I can’t sing with Mìtka; he keeps on snuffling all the time.”
“Mìtka!”
“Yes, sir!”
“What are you doing?”
“I haven’t done nothing,” replied the injured alto.
“Nothing! I’ll give you what for, my lad! Come and stand over here; I won’t put up with much nonsense, I can tell you! Oh, good Lord! what a dog’s life! What do you come here for, if you please? To dance and sing comic songs, eh? Oh, heavens, how much more of it?... Pètka, find my pipe!”
Here the choir-master began tramping up and down the room, ruffling up his hair in front. The trebles all scrambled to pick up the pipe, and, of course, got fighting again; the rest of the choir broke into little groups and talked.
“Confounded idiot!” muttered the stubbly-haired bass, rolling up a bit of music-paper into a cigarette. “He’s a regular brute, that’s what he is!”
In a corner sat two basses and a thin, consumptive tenor.