He wondered, Why do they live?
What pleasure is it for them to live on earth?
They constantly do but their dirty, hard work, they eat poorly, are poorly clad, they drink.

One man is sixty years old, and yet he keeps on toiling side by side with the young fellows.

And they all appeared to Foma as a huge pile of worms, which battled about on earth just to get something to eat.

In his memory sprang up his meetings with these people, one after another--their remarks about life--now sarcastic and mournful, now hopelessly gloomy remarks--their wailing songs.

And now he also recalled how one day in the office Yefim had said to the clerk who hired the sailors: "Some Lopukhin peasants have come here to hire themselves out, so don't give them more than ten roubles a month.