Smouri pushed the spectators aside, separated us, and, after boxing my ear, seized the soldier by the ear. When the passengers saw how the little man danced under the hand of the cook they roared with excitement, whistled, stamped their feet, split their sides with laughter. "Hurrah! Garrison! Butt the cook in the stomach!" This wild joy on the part of others made me feel that I wanted to throw myself upon them and hit their dirty heads with a lump of wood. Smouri let the soldier go, and with his hands behind his back turned upon the passengers like a wild boar, bristling, and showing his teeth terrifyingly. "To your places! March! March!" The soldier threw himself upon me again, but Smouri seized him round the body with one hand and carried him to the hatchway, where he began to pump water on his head, turning his frail body about as if he were a rag-doll. The sailors came running on the scene, with the boatswain and the captain's mate. The passengers crowded about again. A head above the others stood the head-steward, quiet, dumb, as always. The soldier, sitting on some wood near the kitchen door, took off his boots and began to wring out his leggings, though they were not wet. But the water dripped from his greasy hair, which again amused the passengers. "All the same," said the soldier, "I am going to kill that boy." Taking me by the shoulder, Smouri said something to the captain's mate. The sailors sent the passengers away, and when they had all dispersed, he asked the soldier: "What is to be done with you?" The latter was silent, looking at me with wild eyes, and all the while putting a strange restraint upon himself. "Be quiet, you devilskin!" said Smouri. "As you are not the piper, you can't call the tune," answered the soldier. I saw that the cook was confused. His blown-out cheeks became flabby; he spat, and went away, taking me with him. I walked after him, feeling foolish, with backward glances at the soldier. But Smouri muttered in a worried tone: "There's a wild creature for you! What? What do you think of him?" Sergei overtook us and said in a whisper: "He is going to kill himself." "Where is he?" cried Smouri, and he ran. The soldier was standing at the door of the steward's cabin with a large knife in his hand. It was the knife which was used for cutting off the heads of fowls and for cutting up sticks for the stoves. It was blunt, and notched like a saw. In front of the cabin the passengers were assembled, looking at the funny little man with the wet head. His snub-nosed face shook like a jelly; his mouth hung wearily open; his lips twitched. He roared: "Tormentors! Tormentors!" Jumping up on something, I looked over the heads of people into their faces. They were smiling, giggling, and saying to one another: "Look! Look!" When he pushed his crumpled shirt down into his trousers with his skinny, childish hand, a good-looking man near me said: