A few large boats and a
small one were drawn up beyond high-water mark, and the waves as they
ran up towards them seemed as if they were calling to them. Gaffs,
oars, coiled ropes, baskets and barrels lay about in disorder and amidst
it all was a cabin built of yellow branches, bark and matting. Above
the general chaos floated a red rag at the extremity of a tall mast.
Under the shade of a boat lay Vassili Legostev, the watchman at this
outpost of the Grebentchikov fishing grounds. Lying on his stomach, his
head resting on his hands, he was gazing fixedly out to sea, where away
in the distance danced a black spot. Vassili saw with satisfaction that
it grew larger and was drawing nearer.
Screwing up his eyes on account of the glare caused by the reflection on
the water, he grunted with pleasure and content. Malva was coming. A
few minutes more and she would be there, laughing so heartily as to
strain every stitch of her well-filled bodice. She would throw her
robust and gentle arms around him and kiss him, and in that rich
sonorous voice that startles the sea gulls would give him the news of
what was going on yonder. They would make a good fish soup together,
and drink brandy as they chatted and caressed each other.
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