"Stand on a root . . . there are a lot of roots like a ladder." The hunchback gropes for a root
with his heel, and tightly gripping several twigs, stands on it. . . . Having got his balance,
and established himself in his new position, he bends down, and trying not to get the water
into his mouth, begins fumbling with his right hand among the roots. Getting entangled
among the weeds and slipping on the mossy roots he finds his hand in contact with the
sharp pincers of a crayfish.
"As though we wanted to see you, you demon!" says Lubim, and he angrily flings the
crayfish on the bank.
At last his hand feels Gerassim' s arm, and groping its way along it comes to something
cold and slimy.
"Here he is!" says Lubim with a grin. "A fine fellow! Move your fingers, I'll get him
directly . . . by the gills. Stop, don't prod me with your elbow. . . . I'll have him in a minute,
in a minute, only let me get hold of him. . . . The beggar has got a long way under the roots,
there is nothing to get hold of. . . . One can't get to the head . . . one can only feel its belly . .
. . kill that gnat on my neck -- it's stinging! I'll get him by the gills, directly. . . . Come to
one side and give him a push! Poke him with your finger!"
The hunchback puffs out his cheeks, holds his breath, opens his eyes wide, and apparently
has already got his fingers in the gills, but at that moment the twigs to which he is holding
on with his left hand break, and losing his balance he plops into the water! Eddies race
away from the bank as though frightened, and little bubbles come up from the spot where
he has fallen in. The hunchback swims out and, snorting, clutches at the twigs.
"You'll be drowned next, you stupid, and I shall have to answer for you," wheezes
Gerassim." Clamber out, the devil take you! I'll get him out myself."
High words follow. . . . The sun is baking hot. The shadows begin to grow shorter and to
draw in on themselves, like the horns of a snail. . . . The high grass warmed by the sun
begins to give out a strong, heavy smell of honey. It will soon be midday, and Gerassim and
Lubim are still floundering under the willow tree. The husky bass and the shrill, frozen
tenor persistently disturb the stillness of the summer day.
"Pull him out by the gills, pull him out! Stay, I'll push him out! Where are you shoving your
great ugly fist? Poke him with your finger -- you pig's face! Get round by the side! get to the
left, to the left, there's a big hole on the right! You'll be a supper for the water-devil! Pull it
by the lip!"
There is the sound of the flick of a whip. . . . A herd of cattle, driven by Yefim, the
shepherd, saunter lazily down the sloping bank to drink. The shepherd, a decrepit old man,
with one eye and a crooked mouth, walks with his head bowed, looking at his feet. The first
to reach the water are the sheep, then come the horses, and last of all the cows.
"Push him from below!" he hears Lubim's voice. "Stick your finger in! Are you deaf,
fellow, or what? Tfoo!"
"What are you after, lads?" shouts Yefim.