“To sweet the earth off the golden decorations and then to put them into the buckets like fish,” Artiom laughed. Everything was funny.
Also, some pencils and paper for the Indians with their scribbling.
With all this garbage — the parcel of clothing, the bucket — bristling with the handles of the shovels, swearing and occasionally losing something, he barely managed to get out into the monastery courtyard — there, he dropped everything again.
Afanasiev ran up and hurried to help — he was just as cheerful as always, with the same cowlick, a candy in his mouth. Evidently, he had won at cards yesterday.
“Tioma!” Afanasiev sang, playing with the candy in his mouth. “What? They haven’t killed you yet?”
“No, I’m with Eichmanis now?” Artiom immediately blurted out — how much longer could he
