their unanimous self-confidence, their
triumphant faces, their loud voices, their laughter. They were already
seated by the tables, covered with luncheon, and were hungrily admiring
the huge sturgeon, almost three yards in length, nicely sprinkled over
with greens and large crabs. Trofim Zubov, tying a napkin around his
neck, looked at the monster fish with happy, sweetly half-shut eyes, and
said to his neighbour, the flour merchant, Yona Yushkov:

"Yona Nikiforich! Look, it's a regular whale! It's big enough to serve
as a casket for your person, eh? Ha, ha! You could creep into it as a
foot into a boot, eh? Ha, ha!"

The small-bodied and plump Yona carefully stretched out his short little
hand toward the silver pail filled with fresh caviar, smacked his lips
greedily, and squinted at the bottles before him, fearing lest he might
overturn them.

Opposite Kononov, on a trestle, stood a half-vedro barrel of old vodka,
imported from Poland; in a huge silver-mounted shell lay oysters, and a
certain particoloured cake, in the shape of a tower, stood out above all
the viands.

"Gentlemen! I entreat you! Help yourselves to whatever you please!"
cried Kononov. "I have here everything at once to suit the taste of
everyone. There is our own, Russian stuff, and there is foreign, all
at once! That's the best way! Who wishes anything? Does anybody want
snails, or these crabs, eh? They're from India, I am told."

And Zubov said to his neighbour, Mayakin:

"The prayer 'At the Building of a Vessel' is not suitable for steam-tugs
and river steamers, that is, not that it is not suitable, it isn't
enough alone. A river steamer is a place of permanent residence for the
crew, and therefore it ought to be considered as a house. Consequently
it is necessary to make the prayer 'At the Building of a House,' in
addition to that for the vessel. But what will you drink?"

"I am not much of a wine fiend. Pour me out some cumin vodka," replied
Yakov Tarasovich.

Foma, seated at the end of the table among some timid and modest men who
were unfamiliar to him, now and again felt on himself the sharp glances
of the old man.

"He's afraid I'll make a scandal," thought Foma. "Brethren!" roared the
monstrously stout ship builder Yashchurov, in a hoarse voice, "I can't
do without herring! I must necessarily begin with herring, that's my
nature."

"Musicians! strike up 'The Persian March!'"

"Hold on! Better 'How Glorious!'"

"Strike up 'How