“As though we wanted to see you, you demon!” says Lubim, and he angrily flings the crayfish on the bank.

At last his hand feels Gerassim’ s arm, and groping its way along it comes to something cold and slimy.

“Here he is!” says Lubim with a grin.  “A fine fellow!  Move your fingers, I’ll get him directly . . . by the gills.  Stop, don’t prod me with your elbow. . . .  I’ll have him in a minute, in a minute, only let me get hold of him. . . .  The beggar has got a long way under the roots, there is nothing to get hold of. . . .  One can’t get to the head . . . one can only feel its belly . . . . kill that gnat on my neck—­it’s stinging!  I’ll get him by the gills, directly . . . .  Come to one side and give him a push!  Poke him with your finger!”

The hunchback puffs out his cheeks, holds his breath, opens his eyes wide, and apparently has already got his fingers in the gills, but at that moment the twigs to which he is holding on with his left hand break, and losing his balance he plops into the water!  Eddies race away from the bank as though frightened, and little bubbles come up from the spot where he has fallen in.  The hunchback swims out and, snorting, clutches at the twigs.

“You’ll be drowned next, you stupid, and I shall have to answer for you,” wheezes Gerassim.  “Clamber out, the devil take you!  I’ll get him out myself.”

High words follow. . . .  The sun is baking hot.  The shadows begin to grow shorter and to draw in on themselves, like the horns of a snail. . . .  The high grass warmed by the sun begins to give out a strong, heavy smell of honey.  It will soon be midday, and Gerassim and Lubim are still floundering under the willow tree.  The husky bass and the shrill, frozen tenor persistently disturb the stillness of the summer day.

“Pull him out by the gills, pull him out!  Stay, I’ll push him out!  Where are you shoving your great ugly fist?  Poke him with your finger—­you pig’s face!  Get round by the side! get to the left, to the left, there’s a big hole on the right!  You’ll be a supper for the water-devil!  Pull it by the lip!”

There is the sound of the flick of a whip. . . .  A herd of cattle, driven by Yefim, the shepherd, saunter lazily down the sloping bank to drink.  The shepherd, a decrepit old man, with one eye and a crooked mouth, walks with his head bowed, looking at his feet.  The first to reach the water are the sheep, then come the horses, and last of all the cows.

“Push him from below!” he hears Lubim’s voice.  “Stick your finger in!  Are you deaf, fellow, or what?  Tfoo!”

“What are you after, lads?” shouts Yefim.

“An eel-pout!  We can’t get him out!  He’s hidden under the roots.  Get round to the side!  To the side!”

For a minute Yefim screws up his eye at the fishermen, then he takes off his bark shoes, throws his sack off his shoulders, and takes off his shirt.  He has not the patience to take off his breeches, but, making the sign of the cross, he steps into the water, holding out his thin dark arms to balance himself. . . .  For fifty paces he walks along the slimy bottom, then he takes to swimming.