thick tongue.

Tchelkache looked at him. He said, smiling sarcastically.

"So you're done for, already! . . . it isn't possible! Just for five
small glasses! How will you manage to work?"

"Friend," stammered Gavrilo, "don't be afraid! I will serve you. Ah,
how I'll serve you! Let me embrace you, come?"

"That's right, that's right! . . . One more glass?"

Gavrilo drank. Everything swam before his eyes in unequal waves. That
was unpleasant and gave him nausea. His face had a stupid expression.
In his efforts to speak, he protruded his lips comically and roared.
Tchelkache looked at him fixedly as though he was recalling something,
then without turning aside his gaze twisted his moustache and smiled,
but this time, moodily and viciously.

The ale-house was filled with a drunken uproar. The red-haired sailor
was asleep with his elbows on the table.

"Let us get out of here!" said Tchelkache rising.

Gavrilo tried to rise, but not succeeding, uttered a formidable oath
and burst out into an idiotic, drunken laugh.

"See how fresh you are!" said Tchelkache, sitting down again. Gavrilo
continued to laugh, stupidly contemplating his master. The other
looked at him lucidly and penetratingly. He saw before him a man whose