Doútlof, without looking at Elijah, began slowly lighting a bit of candle. His gloves and whip were stuck into the girdle tied neatly round his coat, and his toil-worn face appeared as ordinary, simple, quiet, and full of business cares as if he had just arrived with a train of loaded carts.
Elijah became silent when he saw his uncle, and looked dismally down at the bench again. Then, addressing the Elder, he muttered:
“Vodka, Ermíl! I want some drink!” His voice sounded vindictive and dejected.
“Drink, at this time?” answered the Elder, who was eating something out of a bowl. “Don’t you see the others have had a bite and gone to lie down? Why do you kick up a row?”
The word “row” evidently suggested to Elijah the idea of violence.
“Elder, I’ll do some mischief if you don’t give me vodka!”
“Couldn’t you bring him to reason?” the Elder said, turning to Doútlof, who had lit the lantern and stopped, apparently to see what would happen, and was looking pityingly at his nephew out of the corners of his eyes, as if surprised at his childishness.
Elijah, taken aback, again muttered:
“Vodka! Give … do mischief!”
“Leave off, Elijah!” said the Elder gently. “Really, now, leave off! You’d better!”
But before the words were out, Elijah had jumped up and hit a windowpane with his fist, and shouting at the top of his voice: “You won’t hear me! So there you are!” rushed to the other window to break that also.