unpleasant, a spiteful and exhausted look. . . . Vassya complained
that his jaw ached, and prophesied bad weather; Emelyan was not
waving his arms, but sitting still and looking gloomily at the fire.
Yegorushka, too, was weary. This slow travelling exhausted him, and
the sultriness of the day had given him a headache.

While they were cooking the porridge, Dymov, to relieve his boredom,
began quarrelling with his companions.

"Here he lolls, the lumpy face, and is the first to put his spoon
in," he said, looking spitefully at Emelyan. "Greedy! always contrives
to sit next the cauldron. He's been a church-singer, so he thinks
he is a gentleman! There are a lot of singers like you begging along
the highroad!"

"What are you pestering me for?" asked Emelyan, looking at him
angrily.

"To teach you not to be the first to dip into the cauldron. Don't
think too much of yourself!"

"You are a fool, and that is all about it!" wheezed out Emelyan.

Knowing by experience how such conversations usually ended, Panteley
and Vassya intervened and tried to persuade Dymov not to quarrel
about nothing.

"A church-singer!" The bully would not desist, but laughed
contemptuously. "Anyone can sing like that--sit in the church
porch and sing 'Give me alms, for Christ's sake!' Ugh! you are a
nice fellow!"

Emelyan did not speak. His silence had an irritating effect on
Dymov. He looked with still greater hatred at the ex-singer and
said:

"I don't care to have anything to do with you, or I would show you
what to think of yourself."

"But why are you pushing me, you Mazeppa?" Emelyan cried, flaring
up. "Am I interfering with you?"

"What did you call me?" asked Dymov, drawing himself up, and his
eyes were suffused with blood. "Eh! I am a Mazeppa? Yes? Take that,
then; go and look for it."

Dymov snatched the spoon out of Emelyan's hand and flung it far
away. Kiruha, Vassya, and Styopka ran to look for it, while Emelyan
fixed an imploring and questioning look on Panteley. His face
suddenly became small and wrinkled; it began twitching, and the
ex-singer began to cry like a child.

Yegorushka, who had long hated Dymov, felt as though the air all
at once were unbearably stifling, as though the fire were scorching
his face; he longed to run quickly to the waggons in the darkness,
but the bully's angry bored eyes drew the boy to him. With a
passionate desire to say something extremely offensive, he took a
step towards Dymov and br