“Go-o-o and e-at,” Zavorotny began to clamour again. The stevedores went down to the water; got down on their knees or laid down flat on the gangplank or on the rafts; and, scooping up the water in handfuls, washed their wet, heated faces and arms. Right here, too, on the shore, to one side, where a little grass had been left yet, they disposed themselves for dinner: placed in a circle ten of the most ripe watermelons, black bread, and twenty dried porgies. Gavriushka the Bullet was already running with a half-gallon bottle to the pot-house and was singing as he went the soldiers’ signal for dinner: “Drag spoon and mess-kit out, If there’s no bread, eat without.” A bare-footed urchin, dirty and so ragged that there was more of his bare body than clothes upon him, ran up to the gang. “Which one of you here is Platonov?” he asked, quickly running over them with his thievish eyes. “I’m Platonov, and by what name do they tease you?” “Around the corner here, behind the church, some sort of a young lady is waiting for you...Here’s a note for you.” The whole gang neighed deeply. “What d’you open up your mouths for, you pack of fools!” said Platonov calmly. “Give me the note here.” This was a letter from Jennka, written in a round, naive, rolling, childish handwriting, and not very well spelt. “Sergei Ivanich. Forgive me that I disturbe you. I must talk over a very, very important matter with you. I would not be troubling you if it was Trifles. For only 10 minutes in all. Jennka, whom you know, from Anna Markovna’s.” Platonov got up. “I’m going away for a little while,” he said to Zavorotny. “When you begin, I’ll be in my place.” “Now you’ve found somethin’ to do,” lazily and contemptuously said the head of the gang. “There’s the night for that business...Go ahead, go ahead, who’s holding you. But only if you won’t be here when we begin work, then this day don’t count. I’ll take any tramp. And as many watermelons as he busts—that’s out of your share, too...I didn’t think it of you, Platonov—that you’re such a he-dog...” Jennka was waiting for him in the tiny little square, sheltered between a church and the wharf, and consisting of ten sorry poplars. She had on a gray, one-piece street dress; a simple, round, straw hat with a small black ribbon. “And yet, even though she has dressed herself simply,” reflected Platonov, looking at her from a distance with his habitually puckered eyes, “and yet, every man will walk past, give a look, and inevitably look back three or four times; he’ll feel the especial tone at once.” “Howdy do, Jennka! Very glad to see you,” he said cordially, squeezing the girl’s hand. “There, now, I didn’t expect it!” Jennka was reserved, sad, and apparently troubled over something. Platonov at once understood and sensed this.