Rising on tiptoe, with his neck outstretched, he stared somewhere toward the end of the table, and his eyes flashed strangely, as though he saw there something which was pleasing to him.
"Gordyeeff," said Yona Yushkov, softly.
And all heads were turned toward the direction in which Yakov Tarasovich was staring.
There, with his hands resting on the table, stood Foma.

His face distorted with wrath, his teeth firmly set together, he silently surveyed the merchants with his burning, wide-open eyes.

His lower jaw was trembling, his shoulders were quivering, and the fingers of his hands, firmly clutching the edge of the table, were nervously scratching the tablecloth.

At the sight of his wolf-like, angry face and his wrathful pose, the merchants again became silent for a moment.
"What are you gaping at ?" asked Foma, and again accompanied his question with a violent oath.
"He's drunk!" said Bobrov, with a shake of the head.
"And why was he invited ?" whispered Reznikov, softly.
"Foma Ignatyevich!" said Kononov, sedately, "you mustn't create any scandals.

If your head is reeling--go, my dear boy, quietly and peacefully into the cabin and lie down! Lie down, and--" "Silence, you!" roared Foma, and turned his eye at him.