face, and he seemed to have grown younger; Yashka shouted like mad: 'Capital, capital!'--even my neighbour, the peasant in the torn smock, could not restrain himself, and with a blow of his fist on the table he cried: 'Aha! well done, damn my soul, well done!' And he spat on one side with an air of decision. 'Well, brother, you've given us a treat!' bawled the Gabbler, not releasing the exhausted booth-keeper from his embraces; 'you've given us a treat, there's no denying! You've won, brother, you've won! I congratulate you--the quart's yours! Yashka's miles behind you... I tell you: miles... take my word for it.' (And again he hugged the booth-keeper to his breast.) 'There, let him alone, let him alone; there's no being rid of you'... said the Blinkard with vexation; 'let him sit down on the bench; he's tired, see... You're a ninny, brother, a perfect ninny! What are you sticking to him like a wet leaf for...' 'Well, then, let him sit down, and I'll drink to his health,' said the Gabbler, and he went up to the bar. 'At your expense, brother,' he added, addressing the booth-keeper. The latter nodded, sat down on the bench, pulled a piece of cloth out of his cap, and began wiping his face, while the Gabbler, with greedy haste, emptied his glass, and, with a grunt, assumed, after the manner of confirmed drinkers, an expression of careworn melancholy. 'You sing beautifully, brother, beautifully,' Nikolai Ivanitch observed caressingly. 'And now it's your turn, Yasha; mind, now, don't be afraid. We shall see who's who; we shall see. The booth-keeper sings beautifully, though; 'pon my soul, he does.' 'Very beautifully,' observed Nikolai Ivanitch's wife, and she looked with a smile at Yakov. 'Beautifully, ha!' repeated my neighbour in an undertone. 'Ah, a wild man of the woods!' the Gabbler vociferated suddenly, and going up to the peasant with the rent on his shoulder, he pointed at him with his finger, while he pranced about and went off into an insulting guffaw. 'Ha! ha! get along! wild man of the woods! Here's a ragamuffin from Woodland village! What brought you here?' he bawled amidst laughter. The poor peasant was abashed, and was just about to get up and make off as fast as he could, when suddenly the Wild Master's iron voice was heard: 'What does the insufferable brute mean?' he articulated, grinding his teeth. 'I wasn't doing nothing,' muttered the Gabbler. 'I didn't... I only....' 'There, all right, shut up!' retorted the Wild Master. 'Yakov, begin!' Yakov took himself by his throat: 'Well, really, brothers,... something.... Hm, I don't know, on my word, what....' 'Come, that's enough; don't be timid. For shame!... why go back?... Sing the best you can, by God's gift.'