He had on a blouse and gray pantaloons.

His face was swarthy, as though smoked, his eyes were large, immobile and angry, his thick upper lip was covered with a bristle-like, soldier moustache.

He was sitting on the lounge, with his feet clasped in his huge arms and his chin resting on his knees.

Yozhov sat sideways in a chair, with his legs thrown across the arm of the chair.

Among books and newspapers on the table stood a bottle of vodka and there was an odour of something salty in the room.
"Why are you tramping about ?" Yozhov asked Foma, and, nodding at him, said to the man on the lounge: "Gordyeeff!" The man glanced at the newcomer and said in a harsh, shrill voice: "Krasnoshchokov." Foma seated himself on a corner of the lounge and said to Yozhov: "I have come to stay here over night." "Well?
Go on, Vasily." The latter glanced at Foma askance and went on in a creaking voice: "In my opinion, you are attacking the stupid people in vain.