And now I'm a sort
of superintendent. Sit down at the table. Maybe you're hungry.
Yefim, bring some milk."
Without hurrying, Yefim walked into the shack. The travelers
removed the sacks from their shoulders, and one of the men, a
tall, lank fellow, rose from the table to help them. Another
one, resting his elbows thoughtfully on the table, looked at them,
scratching his head and quietly humming a song.
The pungent odor of the fresh tar blended with the stifling smell
of decaying leaves dizzied the newcomers.
"This fellow is Yakob," said Rybin, pointing to the tall man, "and
that one Ignaty. Well, how's your son?"
"He's in prison," the mother sighed.
"In prison again? He likes it, I suppose."
Ignaty stopped humming; Yakob took the staff from the mother's hand,
and said:
"Sit down, little mother."
"Yes, why don't you sit down?" Rybin extended the invitation to Sofya.
She sat down on the stump of a tree, scrutinizing Rybin seriously
and attentively.
"When did they take him?" asked Rybin, sitting down opposite the
mother, and shaking his head. "You've bad luck, Nilovna."
"Oh, well!"
"You're getting used to it?"
"I'm not used to it, but I see it's not to be helped.
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