However, Zavorotny was not satisfied even with this—­he hurried and hurried his lads on all the time.  Professional ambition was speaking within him; he wanted to bring the daily earnings of every member of the gang up to five roubles per snout.  And gaily, with unusual ease, twinkled from the harbour to the waggon, twirling and flashing, the wet green and white watermelons; and their succulent plashing resounded against accustomed palms.

But now a long blast sounded on the dredging machine in the port.  A second, a third, responded to it on the river; a few more on shore; and for a long time they roared together in a mighty chorus of different voices.

“Ba-a-a-st-a-a!” hoarsely and thickly, exactly like a locomotive blast, Zavorotny started roaring.

And now the last smack-smack—­and the work stopped instantaneously.

Platonov with enjoyment straightened out his back and bent it backward, and spread out his swollen arms.  With pleasure he thought of having already gotten over that first pain in all the muscles, which tells so during the first days, when one is just getting back into the work after disuse.  While up to this day, awaking in the mornings in his lair on Temnikovskaya—­also to the sound of a factory blast agreed upon—­he would during the first minutes experience such fearful pains in his neck, back, in his arms and legs, that it seemed to him as if only a miracle would be able to compel him to get up and make a few steps.

“Go-o-o and e-at,” Zavorotny began to clamour again.

The stevedores went down to the water; got down on their knees or laid down flat on the gangplank or on the rafts; and, scooping up the water in handfuls, washed their wet, heated faces and arms.  Right here, too, on the shore, to one side, where a little grass had been left yet, they disposed themselves for dinner:  placed in a circle ten of the most ripe watermelons, black bread, and twenty dried porgies.  Gavriushka the Bullet was already running with a half-gallon bottle to the pot-house and was singing as he went the soldiers’ signal for dinner: 

    “Drag spoon and mess-kit out,
    If there’s no bread, eat without.”

A bare-footed urchin, dirty and so ragged that there was more of his bare body than clothes upon him, ran up to the gang.

“Which one of you here is Platonov?” he asked, quickly running over them with his thievish eyes.

“I’m Platonov, and by what name do they tease you?”

“Around the corner here, behind the church, some sort of a young lady is waiting for you...Here’s a note for you.”

The whole gang neighed deeply.

“What d’you open up your mouths for, you pack of fools!” said Platonov calmly.  “Give me the note here.”

This was a letter from Jennka, written in a round, naive, rolling, childish handwriting, and not very well spelt.

“Sergei Ivanich.  Forgive me that I disturbe you.  I must talk over a very, very important matter with you.  I would not be troubling you if it was Trifles.  For only 10 minutes in all.  Jennka, whom you know, from Anna Markovna’s.”