The noise weighs down, the dust irritates nostrils and eyes; the heat burns the body, the fatigue, everything seems strained to its utmost tension, and ready to break forth in a resounding explosion that will clear the air and bring peace and quiet to the earth again—­when the town, sea and sky will be calm and beneficent.  But it is only an illusion, preserved by the untiring hope of man and his imperishable and illogical desire for liberty.

Twelve strokes of a bell, sonorous and measured, rang out.  When the last one had died away upon the air, the rude tones of labor were already half softened.  At the end of a minute, they were transformed into a dull murmur.  Then, the voices of men and sea were more distinct.  The dinner hour had come.

* * * * *

When the longshoremen, leaving their work, were dispersed in noisy groups over the wharf, buying food from the open-air merchants, and settling themselves on the pavement, in shady corners, to eat, Grichka Tchelkache, an old jail-bird, appeared among them.  He was game often hunted by the police, and the entire quay knew him for a hard drinker and a clever, daring thief.  He was bare-headed and bare-footed, and wore a worn pair of velvet trousers and a percale blouse torn at the neck, showing his sharp and angular bones covered with brown skin.  His touseled black hair, streaked with gray, and his sharp visage, resembling a bird of prey’s, all rumpled, indicated that he had just awakened.  From his moustache hung a straw, another clung to his unshaved cheek, while behind his ear was a fresh linden leaf.  Tall, bony, a little bent, he walked slowly over the stones, and, turning his hooked nose from side to side, cast piercing glances about him, appearing to be seeking someone among the ’longshoremen.  His long, thick, brown moustache trembled like a cat’s, and his hands, behind his back, rubbed each other, pressing closely together their twisted and knotty fingers.  Even here, among hundreds of his own kind, he attracted attention by his resemblance to a sparrow-hawk of the steppes, by his rapacious leanness, his easy stride, outwardly calm but alert and watchful as the flight of the bird that he recalled.

When he reached a group of tatterdemalions, seated in the shade of some baskets of charcoal, a broad-shouldered and stupid looking boy rose to meet him.  His face was streaked with red and his neck was scratched; he bore the traces of a recent fight.  He walked along beside Tchelkache, and said under his breath: 

“The custom-house officers can’t find two boxes of goods.  They are looking for them.  You understand, Grichka?”

“What of it?” asked Tchelkache, measuring him calmly with his eyes.

“What of it?  They are looking, that’s all.”

“Have they inquired for me to help them in their search?”

Tchelkache gazed at the warehouses with a meaning smile.