Before taking the cauldron off the fire Styopka scattered into the water three big handfuls of millet and a spoonful of salt; finally he tried it, smacked his lips, licked the spoon, and gave a self-satisfied grunt, which meant that the grain was done.

All except Panteley sat down near the cauldron and set to work with their spoons.

“You there! Give the little lad a spoon!” Panteley observed sternly. “I dare say he is hungry too!”

“Ours is peasant fare,” sighed Kiruha.

“Peasant fare is welcome, too, when one is hungry.”

They gave Yegorushka a spoon. He began eating, not sitting, but standing close to the cauldron and looking down into it as in a hole. The grain smelt of fish and fish-scales were mixed up with the millet. The crayfish could not be hooked out with a spoon, and the men simply picked them out of the cauldron with their hands; Vassya did so particularly freely, and wetted his sleeves as well as his hands in the mess. But yet the stew seemed to Yegorushka very nice, and reminded him of the crayfish soup which his mother used to make at home on fast-days. Panteley was sitting apart munching bread.

“Grandfather, why aren’t you eating?” Emelyan asked him.

“I don’t eat crayfish.⁠ ⁠… Nasty things,” the old man said, and turned away with disgust.