And then, the peasants might laugh at him, in all probability.
A fair and curly-headed fellow, with his shirt collar unbuttoned, was now and again running past him, now carrying a log on his shoulder, now an axe in his hands; he was skipping along, like a frolicsome goat, scattering about him cheerful, ringing laughter, jests, violent oaths, and working unceasingly, now assisting one, now another, as he was cleverly and quickly running across the deck, which was obstructed with timber and shavings.

Foma watched him closely, and envied this merry fellow, who was radiant with something healthy and inspiring.
"Evidently he is happy," thought Foma, and this thought provoked in him a keen, piercing desire to insult him somehow, to embarrass him.

All those about him were seized with the zest of pressing work, all were unanimously and hastily fastening the scaffoldings, arranging the pulleys, preparing to raise the sunken barge from the bottom of the river; all were sound and merry--they all lived.

While he stood alone, aside from them, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to do anything, feeling himself superfluous to this great toil.

It vexed him to feel that he was superfluous among men, and the more closely he watched them, the more intense was this vexation.