joined the hauliers?' … At this point Tchitchikov stopped and sank into a daydream. What was he dreaming about? Was he dreaming of the lot of Abakum Fyrov, or was he simply dreaming on his own account as every Russian dreams, whatever may be his years, his rank, and condition, when he thinks of the reckless gaiety of a free life. And indeed, where is Fyrov now? He leads a gay and jolly life on the corn wharf, bargaining with the merchants. Flowers and ribbons on their hats, the whole gang of hauliers are merry, taking leave of their wives and mistresses, tall, well-made women in beads and ribbons; there are dances and songs; the whole place is surging with life, while to the sound of shouts and oaths and words of encouragement, the porters hooking some nine poods on their backs, pour peas and wheat rattling into the deep holds, pile up bags of oats and corn, and the heaps of sacks, piled up in a pyramid like cannon balls, are seen all over the quay, and the huge arsenal of grain towers up immense till it is all loaded into the deep holds, and, with the melting of the ice in spring, the endless fleet files away. Then you get to work, you hauliers! and all together, just as before you made merry, you set to, toiling and sweating, pulling at the strap, to the sound of a song as unending as Russia!
'Aha! Twelve o'clock!' said Tchitchikov, at last, looking at his watch. 'Why have I been dawdling like this? It wouldn't have been so bad, if I had been doing something, but, for no
