The iron clinking of the chains and the groaning creaking of the sheaves joined the wrathful roaring of the waves, and the wind howled loudly, scattering over the river the noise of toil and drove the clouds across the sky.
"Mishka-a! The deuce take you!" cried someone from the top of the scaffolding.

And from the deck, a large-formed peasant, with his head thrown upward, answered: "Wh-a-at ?" And the wind, playing with his long, flaxen beard, flung it into his face.
"Hand us the end." A resounding basso shouted as through a speaking-trumpet: "See how you've fastened this board, you blind devil?
Can't you see?
I'll rub your eyes for you!" "Pull, my boys, come on!" "Once more--brave--boys!" cried out some one in a loud, beseeching voice.
Handsome and stately, in a short cloth jacket and high boots, Foma stood, leaning his back against a mast, and stroking his beard with his trembling hand, admired the daring work of the peasants.

The noise about him called forth in him a persistent desire to shout, to work together with the peasants, to hew wood, to carry burdens, to command--to compel everybody to pay attention to him, and to show them his strength, his skill, and the live soul within him.

But he restrained himself.
And standing speechless, motionless, he felt ashamed and afraid of something.

He was embarrassed by the fact that he was master over everybody there, and that if he were to start to work himself, no one would believe that he was working merely to satisfy his desire, and not to spur them on in their work; to set them an example.