There he noticed that the carriers, formed in two rows, were rolling out of the steamer's hold huge barrels of salted fish.

Dirty, clad in red blouses, unfastened at the collar, with mittens on their hands, with arms bare to the elbow, they stood over the hold, and, merrily jesting, with faces animated by toil, they pulled the ropes, all together, keeping time to their song.

And from the hold rang out the high, laughing voice of the invisible leader: "But for our peasant throats There is not enough vodka." And the company, like one huge pair of lungs, heaved forth loudly and in unison: "Oh, dubinushka, heave-ho!" Foma felt pleased and envious as he looked at this work, which was as harmonious as music.

The slovenly faces of the carriers beamed with smiles, the work was easy, it went on smoothly, and the leader of the chorus was in his best vein.

Foma thought that it would be fine to work thus in unison, with good comrades, to the tune of a cheerful song, to get tired from work to drink a glass of vodka and eat fat cabbage soup, prepared by the stout, sprightly matron of the company.
"Quicker, boys, quicker!" rang out beside him someone's unpleasant, hoarse voice.
Foma turned around.