316 THE DON FLOWS HOME
but looked for other fellow-villagers among the crowd. As
he slowly passed through the throng he heard drunkeir
voices and laughter, and the next moment he came upon
three old men sitting on a horse-cloth under a wagon. One
of them had a pitcher of home-made vodka between his legs.
The merry-making old lads took turns at drinking the vodk^>
from a copper mug made from a shell-case and chewing at
some dried fish. The strong smell of the liquor and the salty
odour of the fish brought hungry Prokhor to a halt.
" Soldier, come and have a drink with us ! " one of the
men invited him. Nothing loath, Prokhor sat down, crossed
himself, and smilingly accepted a mug of the spirit from the
hospitable old man.
" Drink while you're still alive ! Here, take a bite at this
bream. You needn't wait to be asked, youngster," another
of the group said. " The old men are the wise men. You
boys have still got to learn from us how to live and how to
drink vodka." j
Prokhor willingly pressed his lips thirstily against the"
brim of the mug and, without pausing for breath, drank its
contents to the bottom.
" All my living is gone ! So why shouldn't I drink ? "
bellowed the owner of the vodka, a fleshy and healthy old
fellow. " I've brought two hundred poods of grain with me,
but I've had to leave a thousand behind. I've driven five
pairs of bullocks as far as this place, but I've got to leave
them behind, too, now, because I can't get them across the
river. All that I've scraped together will be lost. So sing
up ! Come on, friends ' " His face turned livid and his eyef>
filled with tears. ^
" Don't shout, Trofim Ivanich 1 If our lives are spared
we shall get rich again," one of the others argued with him.
" Why mustn't I shout ? '* the old cossack raised his voice
still higher, and his face was stained with tears. " My grain
will all be lost. My bullocks will die. The Reds will burn
down my hut. My son was killed last autumn. So how can
I help shouting ? Who did I get my farm and possessions
together for ? In the old days I'd have ten shirts-rot with
sweat on my back during the summer, and now I'm left
naked and barefoot. Drink up! "
During their talk Prokhor ate a whole bream, drank seven
mugs of vodka, and became so drunk that when he wanted \