Twelve strokes of a bell, sonorous and measured, rang out. When the
last one had died away upon the air, the rude tones of labor were
already half softened. At the end of a minute, they were transformed
into a dull murmur. Then, the voices of men and sea were more
distinct. The dinner hour had come.
* * * * *
When the longshoremen, leaving their work, were dispersed in noisy
groups over the wharf, buying food from the open-air merchants, and
settling themselves on the pavement, in shady corners, to eat, Grichka
Tchelkache, an old jail-bird, appeared among them. He was game often
hunted by the police, and the entire quay knew him for a hard drinker
and a clever, daring thief. He was bare-headed and bare-footed, and
wore a worn pair of velvet trousers and a percale blouse torn at the
neck, showing his sharp and angular bones covered with brown skin. His
touseled black hair, streaked with gray, and his sharp visage,
resembling a bird of prey's, all rumpled, indicated that he had just
awakened. From his moustache hung a straw, another clung to his
unshaved cheek, while behind his ear was a fresh linden leaf.
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