Tall,
bony, a little bent, he walked slowly over the stones, and, turning his
hooked nose from side to side, cast piercing glances about him,
appearing to be seeking someone among the 'longshoremen. His long,
thick, brown moustache trembled like a cat's, and his hands, behind his
back, rubbed each other, pressing closely together their twisted and
knotty fingers. Even here, among hundreds of his own kind, he
attracted attention by his resemblance to a sparrow-hawk of the
steppes, by his rapacious leanness, his easy stride, outwardly calm but
alert and watchful as the flight of the bird that he recalled.
When he reached a group of tatterdemalions, seated in the shade of some
baskets of charcoal, a broad-shouldered and stupid looking boy rose to
meet him. His face was streaked with red and his neck was scratched;
he bore the traces of a recent fight. He walked along beside
Tchelkache, and said under his breath:
"The custom-house officers can't find two boxes of goods. They are
looking for them. You understand, Grichka?"
"What of it?" asked Tchelkache, measuring him calmly with his eyes.
"What of it? They are looking, that's all.
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