The slanting rays of the sun were still hot; his clothes, wet through with perspiration, stuck to his body; his left boot, full of water, was heavy and made a sucking noise; over his face, begrimed with gunpowder, the perspiration ran in drops; there was a bitter taste in his mouth; his nose was filled with the odor of smoke and of the bog; in his ears rang the incessant cries of the woodcock; his gun-barrels were so hot that he could not touch them; his heart beat with loud and rapid strokes, his hands trembled with excitement, his weary legs kept stumbling and catching in the roots and tussocks: but still he kept on shooting. At last, having made a disgraceful failure, he threw down his gun and cap.
"No, I must get my wits back," he said to himself; and, picking up his gun and cap, he called Laska to heel, and quitted the swamp. As he came out on the dry ground he sat down on a tussock, took off his boots and stockings, poured out the water, then he went back to the swamp, took a long drink of the boggy-smelling water, soaked his hot gun-barrels, and washed his face and hands. After he had cooled off, he again went down to the place where he would find the woodcock, and he made up his mind not to lose his self-control again. He meant to be calm, but it was the same as before. His finger would press the trigger before he had taken fair aim at the bird. Indeed, it went from bad to worse.
He had only five birds in his game-bag when he quitted the marsh and went to the alder-wood where he had agreed to meet Stepan Arkadyevitch.
Before he caught sight of Stepan Arkadyevitch he saw his dog Krak, all black with the marsh slime, and with an air of triumph as he came leaping out from under the up-turned root of an alder and began to snuff at Laska. Then appeared Stepan Arkadyevitch's stately figure in the shade of the alders. He came along, still limping, but with flushed face, all covered with perspiration and with his collar flung open.
"Well, how is it? Have you killed many?" he cried, with a gay smile.
