Tchelkache paid no more attention to him. Sitting on the block, he
whistled absent-mindedly and beat time with his bare and dirty heel.

The boy longed to be revenged.

"Hey! Fisherman! Are you often drunk?" he began; but at the same
instant the fisherman turned quickly around and asked:

"Listen, youngster! Do you want to work with me to-night? Eh? Answer
quick."

"Work at what?" questioned the boy, distrustfully.

"At what I shall tell you. . . We'll go fishing. You shall row. . ."

"If that's it . . . why not? All right! I know how to work. . . Only
suppose anything happens to me with you; you're not reassuring, with
your mysterious airs. . ."

Tchelkache felt a burning sensation in his breast and said with
concentrated rage:

"Don't talk about what yon can't understand, or else, I'll hit yon on
the head so hard that your ideas will soon clear up."

He jumped up, pulling his moustache with his left hand and doubling his
right fist all furrowed with knotted veins and hard as iron; his eyes
flashed.