“I don’t want to die in Kamchatka”
“The transport has left Hakodate. The wireless man said so.”
“It’d be fine to go home, wouldn’t it?”
“There’s no chance of that.”
“But they say there’s lots get away on the transport.”
“Do they? … That’d be good, wouldn’t it?”
“They say that some make out they’re going fishing and then escape to the mainland of Kamchatka, and once there start on Red propaganda with the Bolshies.”
“For the sake of our Empire—they’ve thought of a good name for it!” The student undid his front buttons, showing his hollow chest and, with a yawn, started to scratch it. The dirt was caked on, and as he scratched it fell off in fine flakes.
“Yes, and when the bloody plutocrats of the company are pocketing everything!”
From under his eyelids, puckered up into loose folds like oyster shells, one old fisherman gazed with dull, listless eyes at the stove and then spat on it. When it fell on the top of the stove the spit became a little round ball and sizzled and danced, becoming smaller and smaller until it vanished, leaving behind a little case about as big as a pea. They all watched it indifferently.
“What you say may be right.”
But just then the chief sailor said, “Hi there, you, don’t be starting any insubordination!”
“You go to hell, you swine,” said the stutterer, sticking out his lips like an octopus.
