Number one
would reach for a watermelon and pass it on to the second, who was
standing on the side of the barge. The second cast it to the
third, standing already on the wharf; the third threw it over to
the fourth; while the fourth handed it up to the fifth, who stood
on a horse cart and laid the watermelons away--now dark-green, now
white, now striped--into even glistening rows. This work is clean,
lively, and progresses rapidly. When a good party is gotten up, it
is a pleasure to see how the watermelons fly from hand to hand,
are caught with a circus-like quickness and success, and anew, and
anew, without a break, fly, in order to fill up the dray. It is
only difficult for the novices, that have not as yet gained the
skill, have not caught on to that especial sense of the tempo. And
it is not as difficult to catch a watermelon as to be able to
throw it.
Platonov remembered well his first experiences of last year. What
swearing--virulent, mocking, coarse--poured down upon him when for
the third or fourth time he had been gaping and had slowed up the
passing: two watermelons, not thrown in time, had smashed against
the pavement with a succulent crunch, while the completely lost
Platonov dropped the one which he was holding in his hands as
well.
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