Not long afterwards he was standing in the church, and with his forehead leaning on somebody’s back, listened to the singing of the choir.  The service was drawing to a close.  Yegorushka did not understand church singing and did not care for it.  He listened a little, yawned, and began looking at the backs and heads before him.  In one head, red and wet from his recent bathe, he recognized Emelyan.  The back of his head had been cropped in a straight line higher than is usual; the hair in front had been cut unbecomingly high, and Emelyan’s ears stood out like two dock leaves, and seemed to feel themselves out of place.  Looking at the back of his head and his ears, Yegorushka, for some reason, thought that Emelyan was probably very unhappy.  He remembered the way he conducted with his hands, his husky voice, his timid air when he was bathing, and felt intense pity for him.  He longed to say something friendly to him.

“I am here, too,” he said, putting out his hand.

People who sing tenor or bass in the choir, especially those who have at any time in their lives conducted, are accustomed to look with a stern and unfriendly air at boys.  They do not give up this habit, even when they leave off being in a choir.  Turning to Yegorushka, Emelyan looked at him from under his brows and said: 

“Don’t play in church!”

Then Yegorushka moved forwards nearer to the ikon-stand.  Here he saw interesting people.  On the right side, in front of everyone, a lady and a gentleman were standing on a carpet.  There were chairs behind them.  The gentleman was wearing newly ironed shantung trousers; he stood as motionless as a soldier saluting, and held high his bluish shaven chin.  There was a very great air of dignity in his stand-up collar, in his blue chin, in his small bald patch and his cane.  His neck was so strained from excess of dignity, and his chin was drawn up so tensely, that it looked as though his head were ready to fly off and soar upwards any minute.  The lady, who was stout and elderly and wore a white silk shawl, held her head on one side and looked as though she had done someone a favour, and wanted to say:  “Oh, don’t trouble yourself to thank me; I don’t like it . . . .”  A thick wall of Little Russian heads stood all round the carpet.

Yegorushka went up to the ikon-stand and began kissing the local ikons.  Before each image he slowly bowed down to the ground, without getting up, looked round at the congregation, then got up and kissed the ikon.  The contact of his forehead with the cold floor afforded him great satisfaction.  When the beadle came from the altar with a pair of long snuffers to put out the candles, Yegorushka jumped up quickly from the floor and ran up to him.

“Have they given out the holy bread?” he asked.

“There is none; there is none,” the beadle muttered gruffly.  “It is no use your. . .”