Reznikov, a tall, thin, good-looking man. "Without a
quiver! Like a lady in the dance!"

"Half speed!"

"It's not a ship, it's a Leviathan!" remarked with a devout sigh the
pock-marked and stooping Trofim Zubov, cathedral-warden and principal
usurer in town.

It was a gray day. The sky, overcast with autumn clouds, was reflected
in the water of the river, thus giving it a cold leaden colouring.
Flashing in the freshness of its paint the steamer sailed along the
monotonous background of the river like a huge bright spot, and the
black smoke of its breath hung in the air like a heavy cloud. All white,
with pink paddle-boxes and bright red blades, the steamer easily cut
through the cold water with its bow and drove it apart toward the
shores, and the round window-panes on the sides of the steamer and
the cabin glittered brilliantly, as though smiling a self-satisfied,
triumphant smile.

"Gentlemen of this honourable company!" exclaimed Kononov, removing his
hat, and making a low bow to the guests. "As we have now rendered unto
God, so to say, what is due to God, would you permit that the musicians
render now unto the Emperor what is due to the Emperor?"

And, without waiting for an answer from his guests, he placed his fist
to his mouth, and shouted:

"Musicians! Play 'Be Glorious!'"

The military orchestra, behind the engine, thundered out the march.

And Makar Bobrov, the director and founder of the local commercial bank,
began to hum in a pleasant basso, beating time with his fingers on his
enormous paunch:

"Be glorious, be glorious, our Russian Czar--tra-rata! Boom!"

"I invite you to the table, gentlemen! Please! Take pot-luck, he, he!
I entreat you humbly," said Kononov, pushing himself through the dense
group of guests.

There were about thirty of them, all sedate men, the cream of the
local merchants. The older men among them, bald-headed and gray, wore
old-fashioned frock-coats, caps and tall boots. But there were only few
of these; high silk hats, shoes and stylish coats reigned supreme.
They were all crowded on the bow of the steamer, and little by little,
yielding to Kononov's requests, moved towards the stern covered with
sailcloth, where stood tables spread with lunch. Lup Reznikov walked
arm in arm with Yakov Mayakin, and, bending over to his ear, whispered
something to him, while the latter listened and smiled. Foma, who had
been brought to the festival by his godfather, after long admonitio