hen he smiled.
     "It's  wonderful!" Hottabych  whispered  enviously. "What's wonderful?"
Volka asked, clapping as loud as he could.
     "It's  wonderful to  see  a person  who  has  gold teeth growing in his
mouth."
     "You think so?" Volka asked absently as he watched the first trick.
     "I  am  positive," Hottabych replied.  "It's  very beautiful  and  rich
looking."
     Sidorelli completed the trick.
     "Did  you see that?" Volka asked  Zhenya proudly, as if he  himself had
done the trick.
     "It was swell!" Zhenya answered. Volka gasped: Zhenya now had  two rows
of gold teeth in his mouth.
     "Volka! Oh, Volka!" Zhenya whispered in a frightened voice. "I want  to
tell you something-but don't get scared. All your teeth are made of gold."
     "It's all Hottabych's doing, I know," Volka said dejectedly.
     And  true  enough,   the  old  man,  who  was  listening  in  on  their
conversation, nodded and smiled guilelessly. Then they saw that he, too, had
two rows of large, even gold teeth.
     "Even Sulayman, the Son of David (peace be on the holy twain!), did not
have such a luxurious mouth!" he boasted. "But don't bother  thanking me.  I
assure you that you are both worthy of this small surprise."
     "Don't worry, we're in no rush to thank you!" Zhenya muttered.
     Volka was afraid the old man might get angry and he tugged his friend's
sleeve. Zhenya said no more.
     "You  see, Hottabych,"  be  began  diplomatically,  "it'll  be  awfully
obvious if all three of us sitting in a row have gold  teeth. Everybody will
look at us, and we'll feel embarrassed."
     "I won't be embarrassed in the least," Hottabych said.
     "But still, we  won't feel right. There won't be any pleasure in  being
at the circus."
     "So?"
     "Well,  we wanted to ask you to make our teeth plain bone again till we
get home."
     "I am perfectly awed by  your modesty, 0 my young friends!" the old man
said in a somewhat hurt voice.
     It was a relief to feel  that  once  again they had  their own teeth in
their mouths.
     "Will  they  turn  gold  again  when  we  get  home?"  Zhenya whispered
anxiously.
     "Never mind, we'll find out later. Maybe the old man will  forget about
them."
     Once   again  Volka  became  absorbed   watching  Afanasy   Sidorelli's
breath-taking magic. He applauded together with the rest when the man pulled
a pigeon, a hen, and, finally, a  bouncy, fluffy  white poodle from an empty
box.
     There was only one man present who showed no sign of appreciation as he
watched the magician. This was Hottabych.
     He felt very hurt, because everyone was applauding the magician for all
sorts of trifles, while he,  who had  performed such wonderful miracles from
the time he had been liberated from the vessel, had not even heard a  single
sincere word of praise, let alone been applauded.
     That  is  why, when the tent was once  again filled with  applause  and
Sidorelli began bowing to all sides,  Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab grunted
irritably and,  despite the protests of those sitting in front, proceeded to
climb  over them down  to the  arena. An approving murmur passed through the
crowd  and a stout man  said to his  neighbour: "I told you that the old man
was one of them.  You can tell he's a very experienced clown. Look how funny
he is. Sometimes they sit in with the audience on purpose."
     Fortunately  for the man, Hottabych heard nothing of what 'he said,  as
he was  engrossed in watching the magician. Sidorelli was about to begin his
most difficult trick.
     First of all, the famous illusionist set fire  to several long coloured
ribbons and stuffed them into his mouth. Then he picked up a large, brightly
coloured bowl filled with something that looked like sawdust. He stuffed his
mouth full of the sawdust  and began to fan himself quickly with a beautiful
green fan.  The sawdust in his mouth began to smoulder. Then a wisp of smoke
appeared  and,  finally,  when  the  lights  were turned  out,  everyone saw
thousands  of sparks and even a small flame shoot from the famous magician's
mouth.
     Then,  amidst  a  storm of applause  and  shouts of Bravo!  Hottabych's
indignant voice could be heard.
     "It's  a fake!" he shouted at the top of  his  lungs. "That's no magic!
It's simple sleight-of-hand!"
     "Isn't he something!" someone shouted.
     "A  wonderful  clown! Bravo, clown!" And everyone  present except Volka
and his friend applauded Hottabych enthusiastically.
     The old man did not understand which clown they were shouting about. He
waited for the applause he had inspired to die down and continued acidly:
     "What kind of magic is that! Ha, ha, ha!"
     He  shoved  the  thunderstruck  magician aside.  To begin with, fifteen
tremendous multi-coloured flames shot from his mouth; they were so real that
a smell of burning filled the circus.
     The  applause was  balm  to Hottabych's  heart.  Then  he  snapped  his
fingers, and instead of one large Sidorelli, seventy-two tiny Sidorellis ran
off in single file along the barrier surrounding the arena. After completing
several circles, they blended into one  large Sidorelli  again, just as tiny
drops of mercury roll together to form a large drop.
     "That's not  all!" Hottabych thundered  in a  voice that was no  longer
human.  He was excited  by the admiration he had aroused,  and began to draw
forth herds of horses from under the flaps of his jacket.
     The  horses whinnied with fear, they pawed the  ground and tossed their
heads, making their lovely silken manes blow. Then, at a signal from the old
man, the  horses  disappeared. Instead, four  huge,  roaring  African  lions
jumped out from under his  jacket. They raced around the arena several times
and also disappeared.
     There was an unending storm of applause from that moment on.
     Hottabych waved his hand and everything on the arena- Sidorelli and his
assistants, and his various  props, and the elegant uniformed attendants-all
shot into the air, completed several farewell circles  over the heads of the
astounded audience, and dissolved into nothing.
     Suddenly and from nowhere, a  huge African elephant with sly, twinkling
eyes appeared on the arena. On its back was an  elephant of smaller size; on
the second was a  third, still smaller; on the third  was a fourth. . .  the
seventh and smallest of all stood right under the top of the tent and was no
bigger than a dog.
     They trumpeted in unison, their trunks raised on high; then all flapped
their ears like wings and flew off.
     The  band  of  thirty-three  musicians-all  shouting  happily- suddenly
became a single ball; it rolled down  from the  bandstand into the arena and
along the barrier, getting smaller and smaller until it was no larger than a
pea. Then Hottabych picked it up, put  it in his right ear, and the  muffled
sounds of a march could be heard coming from within.

     The old man was really bouncing up and down from excitement. He snapped
all  ten fingers at once  and in a very special way,  and  everyone  present
began to shoot up from their  seats, one at a time,  and disappear far under
the big top.
     Finally, only three people remained in the empty circus: Hottabych, who
had  wearily  sat  down to  rest  on the barrier,  and the two boys, who had
rushed down to him from the last row.
     "Well,  how was  it?" Hottabych asked  limply,  raising his  head  with
difficulty and  looking  at the boys from strangely glazed  eyes. "That's no
Sidorelli for you, is it?"
     "He's certainly no  match for  you," Volka  replied,  winking at Zhenya
angrily, because his friend kept trying to ask the old man something.
     "I can't stand fakers," Hottabych muttered  with unexpected bitterness.
"To pass off simple sleight-of-hand for miracles! And in my presence!"
     "But he didn't know a  wise and mighty Genie was present here,"  Zhenya
put in a word for the magician. "And anyway, he didn't say he was performing
miracles. In fact, he didn't say anything at all."
     "It says so there. It says so in the programme.  You heard  me read it:
'Miracles of Illusion.' "
     "Well, but of illusion, il-lu-sion! Don't you understand?"
     "How they applauded me!" the old man recalled delightedly.  "But you, 0
Volka, have never applauded nor  even approved of me. No,  I'm wrong.  There
was one occasion. But  it was on  account of some very simple magic. I don't
even consider it magic.
     And that evil Varvara Stepanovna is blame. It was she who taught you to
scorn  my gifts! Do not  argue, 0 my  young friends! It was she, it was she!
Such  wonderful  palaces!  Such a lovely little  caravan! Such  devoted  and
healthy slaves! Such excellent camels! And  it was all because of that  evil
Varvara Ste..." but  here, luckily  for the  teacher  and our young friends,
Hottabych's gaze  fell  on  a  long banner hanging  over the bandstand.  His
glazed  eyes,  once  again took on an  intelligent expression; a weak  smile
appeared on his face and, with the satisfaction of one who  has just learned
to read, he pronounced aloud:
     "De-ar child-ren! Con-gra-tu-la-tions  on fi-ni-shing the sch-ool term.
We wish you...."
     The old man fell silent  and closed his eyes.  It seemed as if he  were
about to lose consciousness.
     "Could you bring everyone back to  their seats?" Volka asked anxiously.
"Hottabych, can  you hear me? D'you hear  me?  Can you make everything as it
was before? I bet it's very hard to do, isn't it?"
     "No, not at  all. I mean, it's not hard for me to do at all," Hottabych
answered in a barely audible whisper.
     "I don't think even you can do it," Volka said craftily.
     "Yes, I can, but I feel very tired."
     "See, that's what I said! You can't do it."
     At this, Hottabych rose up  with a sigh. He  yanked thirteen hairs from
his beard, tore them to bits, and shouted a strange and very long word. Then
he sank down onto the sawdust covering the floor. From high under the circus
tent enraptured people came whizzing  down, and each one to  his  own  seat.
Sidorelli and his assistants, the props and the uniformed attendants, headed
by the imposing ring-master, appeared on the arena as from under the ground.
     Flapping  their  ears loudly, all seven African  elephants came  flying
back.  They  landed and formed  a pyramid again, only this time the smallest
one was on the bottom and the big one with the twinkling eyes on  top, right
under  the roof. Then  the pyramid they  formed fell apart and  they  rushed
around the arena in single file, getting smaller and smaller until they were
no bigger than the head of a pin; finally, they got lost in the sawdust.
     The orchestra rolled out of Hottabych's right ear like a pea;
     it mushroomed into a huge pile of laughing people and, contrary  to the
law of  gravity, rolled upwards to  the bandstand, where  it fell apart into
thirty-three men. They took their seats and began to play a march.
     "Let  me  through,  please!  Let  me  through!"  a thin  man  in  large
horn-rimmed glasses  said, as he  made  his way  through  the excited  crowd
standing around Hottabych.  "Won't  you be  so  kind as to  drop in  at  the
manager's office? He'd like to talk to you about performing in Moscow and on
a road tour," he said deferentially.
     "Leave the  old  man  alone," Volka  told him unhappily. "Can't you see
he's sick? He's got a high fever!"
     And true enough, Hottabych was really burning up. He had got  sick from
eating too much ice-cream.

        A HOSPITAL UNDER THE BED

     He who has never had to take care of a sick Genie cannot imagine what a
tiring and bothersome affair it is.
     First of all, there arises the question of where to keep him. You can't
put  him  in a  hospital, and  there's no question of  keeping him in bed at
home, where everyone can see him.
     Then again, how does one cure a  Genie? Modern medicine  is useful when
one deals with people, not fairy-tale magicians.
     And, finally, can people catch Genies' diseases?
     The boys discussed these problems at great length  as they rode home in
a cab with a delirious Hottabych.
     They came to the following decisions:
     1. They would not take him to a hospital,  but keep him  as comfortable
as possible under  Volka's bed, suggesting first that, for safety's sake, he
become invisible.
     2. They would treat him  as they  would  a person who had a  cold. They
would give him aspirin  and tea with raspberry jam before going to sleep  to
make him perspire.
     3. Genies' diseases could not possibly be catching.
     Fortunately, no one was at home. They made Hottabych comfortable in his
usual place under Volka's bed.
     Zhenya ran off to buy some aspirins and raspberry jam, while Volka went
to the kitchen to make some tea.
     "Well,  tea's  ready!"  he said cheerfully,  entering the  room with  a
boiling kettle. "Let's have some tea, Hottabych. Hm?"
     There was no answer.
     "He's  dead," Volka gasped and suddenly, despite all the unpleasantness
Hottabych had  caused him, he felt he would  miss the old man terribly if he
died. "Dear, dear Hottabych!" he babbled, crawling under the bed.
     The old man was not there.
     "What a crazy old man!" Volka  said angrily,  forgetting all his tender
feelings. "He was here a moment ago, and now he's disappeared!"
     There is no telling what bitter  words Volka would have added if Zhenya
had  not then dashed into the room, dragging  a balky Hottabych  behind. The
old man was mumbling something.
     "What a nut! You  can't imagine what a nut he is!" Zhenya shouted as he
helped Volka settle Hottabych under  the bed again. "I was coming  back from
the shop  and there he was,  standing  on  the  corner with a sack of  gold,
trying to hand it  out to passers-by. I asked him, 'What are you  doing here
with a high fever?' And he said, 'I feel my days are counted. I want to hand
out alms on this occasion.' And I said, 'You're nuts! Whom are you  going to
give alms to?  Did you see any  beggars here?' And  he  said, 'If that's the
case, I'll go back home.' So I dragged him back. You  just lie still and get
well! There's no use rushing death!"
     They gave Hottabych a mouthful of  aspirins, then fed him the whole jar
of raspberry jam with tea, and bundled him up tightly to make him perspire.
     For a while, the old man lay there quietly. Suddenly, he began to fuss,
trying to get up. He said he was going to Sulayman, the Son of David, to ask
forgiveness for some  long-forgotten  ill deeds. Then he  began  to cry  and
asked Volka to run down  to the  Mediterranean Sea and the Indian  Ocean and
find a copper vessel on the bottom in  which his dear brother  Omar Asaf ibn
Hottab was imprisoned. He wanted Volka to free him and bring him back home.
     "We'd all  live so  happily here!" he mumbled deliriously with.  bitter
tears pouring down his cheeks.
     Half an hour later  the old man  came to his  senses and said in a weak
voice from under the bed:
     "Oh, my young  friends, you cannot  imagine how grateful I  am for your
love and  precious attention! Will you please  do me a  last favour: bind my
hands  tightly, because I'm afraid I might do such  magic  while unconscious
that I'll never be able to undo it later."
     They tied him up and he immediately fell soundly asleep.
     Next morning Hottabych awoke in the prime of health.
     "That's what  medical attention administered  in  time can  do!" Zhenya
said  with satisfaction. Then  and there he decided to be a doctor  when  he
grew up.

        ONE IN WHICH WE RETURN TO THE BARKING BOY

     To tell the truth, each time  Volka thought of Goga, he became terribly
envious.  If  he  was at home  or on  the  stairs, or  downstairs  near  the
entrance, it was difficult not to think of Goga:
     ever  so  often  a teasing,  wonderful,  marvellous  barking  could  be
heard-even through closed doors and closed windows.
     It was most strange, however, that Goga did not come  outside. No other
boy  in his place  could ever have  been  able to stay  away so long and not
boast to his friends about his real, pure-breed puppy. And Goga, especially,
would have gloated to see the children so envious.
     There was something strange about it all. Finally, Volka could not keep
from  asking  Goga's  mother  what  the  matter  was.  She  became  terribly
embarrassed and mumbled something about  her dear  boy being sick.  Then she
rushed off.
     "Wait  a minute!" Volka  pleaded. "Can I ask  you something?  Just  one
question?"
     Goga's mother stopped reluctantly.
     "Can you just tell me if it's an Alsatian? Is it?"
     "What Alsatian?" the poor woman shrugged.
     "The  puppy you gave  Goga. You  know, the one that's barking. Is it an
Alsatian or a Boxer?"
     "Goodness, what nonsense!" she sighed and disappeared quickly  into her
apartment.
     As if for spite, a high-pitched angry barking issued forth.
     It was all very mysterious.
     Just then Hottabych,  who  was lying in  his usual  place under Volka's
bed, asked casually:
     "I wonder how your enemy named Pill is getting on?"
     He  yearned to boast  about the  cunning spell  he  had cast on him and
share with Volka his delight in the trouble Goga was deservedly having.
     "No  one  but I  can ever break the spell,"  he thought.  "I  can  just
imagine how the most greatly-respected Volka ibn Alyosha will be pleased and
how amazed he will be at the endless variety of my powers."
     "Pill?" Volka repeated  absently, for he had  just  thought  of  a very
simple  and  tempting  idea.  "Pill?  He's  not  feeling  too  good. Listen,
Hottabych," he crouched down and stuck his head  under the bed,  in order to
carry on negotiations more comfortably.  "I  want  to  ask  you  for  a  big
favour."
     "This is it," the old Genie thought unhappily. He suspected that  Volka
was about to ask him  to break the spell he had cast on Goga; and he decided
to  refuse flatly. At least for the  time being. It wouldn't hurt the horrid
tattle-tale and gossip to suffer a bit. It would only do him good.  However.
Hottabych replied sourly:
     "I'll be only too happy to know your wish."
     "I want to ask you for a present."
     The old man was pleased at not being forced to discuss Goga's premature
pardon. He scurried out from under the bed.
     "Just tell me what you want and you'll have it immediately, 0 young and
benevolent Genie-saviour."
     "Could you give me a dog? An Alsatian?"
     "A dog? Nothing could be simpler or more pleasing to my heart!"
     Hottabych  yanked  a  hair  from  his  beard.  Volka  felt  faint  from
happiness:  there,   at   his  feet,  a  magnificent,  sleek  and   muscular
three-year-old Alsatian  stretched with a pleasant  growl.  It  had  lively,
intelligent eyes, a cold, wet nose and marvellous pointed ears. Volka patted
its  neck.  The  dog wagged  its  tail politely and  barked  loudly  from an
overflow of emotion.
     "How do you like this dog?" Hottabych asked, as he bustled about, ready
at a sign from Volka to  fill the entire room, the entire apartment, and the
entire house with the most valuable dogs. "Oh, I beg your pardon. I forgot a
small detail."
     The  "small  detail"  was  a  collar, which  appeared  immediately.  It
glittered with such a  multitude of precious stones that there would be more
than enough for two imperial crowns.
     The unexpected  happiness was  almost more  than Volka  could bear.  He
patted the dog with a  shaking  hand and had such a dazed smile on  his face
that tears of happiness rolled down the kind-hearted old man's cheeks.
     But there can never  be  complete happiness  in life,  at any rate, not
when you are dealing with a Genie's gifts! Suddenly, they heard the clicking
of a woman's heels behind the door. No sooner had Hottabych darted under the
bed,  there  to  become invisible,  than  the door opened and Volka's mother
entered.
     "That's just what  I thought," she said, looking at the animal.  In his
haste, the old Genie had forgotten to make it invisible. "A dog! I'd like to
know where  you got it?" Volka knew he  was sinking fast  and sure.  "I  got
it.... It was given to me... . You see.... What I mean is...."
     There was no sense telling her the truth, and Volka didn't want to lie.
Anyway, there was no  sense  lying-his mother could always tell when  he was
not telling the truth.
     "Volka!" she said, raising  her voice, "I don't  like your  mumbling. I
want you to tell me whose dog it is."
     "It isn't anyone's ... I mean, it wasn't anybody's before, but now it's
mine."
     His mother  turned pink with indignation. "I didn't think you would lie
to me. I didn't think you were  capable of it. Tell me whose dog it is. Why,
the collar alone is worth hundreds of roubles."
     She thought the stones were just coloured glass.  Hottabych became very
angry. He was both  angry and hurt. He wanted this noble, but naive woman to
understand that Has-san Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab was not one to  present  his
best friends  with cheap imitations and that this truly priceless collar was
worth thousands upon thousands of roubles. But  he  checked himself in time,
since he now realized such bragging would only make Volka's situation worse.
     He  himself was a  straightforward and truthful person and was proud of
Volka for not wanting to lie,  even though it was the tiniest white lie. The
only thing to do was to stop the misunderstanding immediately.
     "Well then, my kind and truthful young friend will have to do without a
dog  for the time being. And let him not  be bothered by dreams  of owning a
dog," Hottabych thought, smiling into his beard.
     A  faint crystal  tinkling  issued  from under  the bed,  and  the  dog
disappeared.
     "Volka,  dear," his mother  said,  completely forgetting what  they had
been  talking about. "If my office calls, please tell them I'll be  there in
an hour or so.  By  the way,  do you know whom the doctor  came to see  next
door?"
     "Goga, I guess."
     "Is he ill?"
     "I think so." -
     "You think so! Isn't he your friend?"
     "Some friend!"
     "I'm ashamed  of you, Volka," his mother said angrily,  and she  turned
and walked out of the room with a stony face.
     "Hm!"  Volka sighed and decided  to visit  Goga as  soon as the  doctor
left. "Hottabych! Hey, Hottabych!"
     There was no answer.
     "He's gone again! Whenever you have to discuss something with him, he's
not there. What a Genie!"
     Meanwhile, Hottabych was making  himself  comfortable in  apartment 37,
this  time under Goga's bed. He was curious to see how the  old doctor,  who
obviously had no idea what  a mighty and unusual opponent he was up against,
would helplessly fumble about in search of a correct diagnosis.
     This is what was happening in the room where the most mysterious of all
the  old district doctor's cases lay high  on fluffed pillows, while  Volka,
taking advantage of  Hottabych's absence, sat down  to study his  geography,
and the old Genie himself lay hidden under Goga's bed.
     The old doctor's name was  Alexander  Alexeyevich.  We want you to know
this, in case you meet him some day. He was very experienced and wise.
     "Now,  will  you please  leave us alone? There's something we  have  to
discuss," he said kindly to Goga's despairing mother.
     "Well, young man," he said when they were  alone (Hottabych  under  the
bed obviously did not count), "how are things? Are we still barking?"
     "It's awful!" Goga moaned.
     "Aha!  Well then,  let's just  chat  a bit. What  kind of poems do  you
like?"
     "Bow-wow-wow!"  Goga barked. His mother, who  was standing just outside
the door, began to sob.
     You can imagine what Goga wanted to reply to the old doctor's question!
He was  indignant  and he  considered it a foolish and unnecessary question.
However, his barking neither surprised nor distressed the old doctor.
     "Don't  get  angry,"  Alexander Alexeyevich said in a  very calm voice.
"This question has direct bearing on your illness."
     "I like 'A Winter's Evening,' a poem by Pushkin," Goga finally answered
after barking for a long while.
     "Won't you recite it for me? Do you know it by heart?"
     Goga recited four lines.
     "That's enough!"  the doctor said. "Now, will you please  tell  me what
you think about your classmate, ah, what's-his-name?  The one who lives next
door?"
     "You mean Volka Kostylkov?"
     "Exactly."
     "Bow-wow-wow!" Goga barked loudly.
     "Now, now. Try to use words."
     "Bow-wow-wow'." Goga replied, shrugging helplessly, as  if to say: "I'd
be only too glad to use words, but I can't. I don't seem to be able to."
     "I see. That's enough. That's enough,  I said! Hm! Well, and what about
the other children in your class?"
     "In my  class?" the ailing Goga smirked. "If you want to  know, all the
kids in my class are bow-wow-wow!"
     "Well,  and what do you think about me? Don't be shy, tell me what  you
really think. What do you think of me as a doctor?"
     "As a doctor, I think you're nothing but a bow-wow-wow!"
     "Wonderful!"  Alexander Alexeyevich exclaimed with  genuine  joy.  "And
what do you think about your mother?"
     "My  mother's very nice," Goga said. His mother, still  standing behind
the  door, burst out in tears,  though  these were tears of happiness.  "But
sometimes  she's bow...." He shuddered  and  fell silent.  "No, she's always
very, very nice."
     "And what about your class wall-newspaper? Do you have  anything to say
about it?" the old doctor asked, but this time only to be doubly certain. He
had finally discovered the essence of the rare illness his young patient was
suffering from. "Did they ever criticize you in the paper?"
     This time Goga kept on barking for at least two  minutes. Hottabych was
tired  of listening to  him, but the  old doctor  was so  delighted that one
would  think it  was not  Goga  Pilukin, nicknamed "Pill" for his  atrocious
temper, barking, but an opera star singing his most famous aria.
     When Goga had barked  his  fill, Alexander Alexeyevich rubbed his hands
together contentedly.
     "It seems quite clear now. But let us not be hasty and, instead, put it
to the test again. Here's my pen  and a sheet of paper. I want you to write:
'There is  no  place in our  country for gossips and tattle-tales!' Have you
written it? Excellent! Let me see it. You have written it nicely and without
a single mistake. Now let's write another  sentence. By the way, what's your
teacher's  name?  Varvara  Stepanovna?  Well  then,   write  this:  'Varvara
Stepanovna!  Vanya  and  Petya  are purposely teaching me  to  swear.  I'm a
conscientious boy and wish you would punish them."
     Goga's  face became  terribly  sour. Something was  obviously wrong. He
kept writing and crossing out what he had written, until the doctor  finally
took  the messy sheet of  paper  away.  This is what he read, chuckling, but
apparently not a bit surprised:
     "Varvara   Stepanovna!   Vanya   and  Petya   bow-wow-wow....   I'm   a
conscientious   boy  and  wish  you  would  bow-wow-wow."   Each   of  these
"bow-wow-wow's"  was  crossed out, but each  time  the unfortunate  Goga had
written in another "bow-wow-wow" over the one that had been crossed out.
     "The committee's findings are clear," the  doctor said, folding the two
papers and putting them away in his  wallet. "Please come in!" he called  to
Goga's mother..
     She entered, dabbing her eyes with a damp hanky.
     After she had sat down,  Alexander Alexeyevich said,  "I have to inform
you that  I  didn't  sleep  a  wink last night, because I  was busy  looking
through my  medical books and  thinking. I  could find nothing  at all which
even vaguely resembled your son's case."
     The poor woman gasped nervously.
     "Do not  despair,  my good woman," the old doctor said. "Things are not
hopeless. I  read on and  on, and thought a  great  deal. And  after  that I
naturally  could  not  fall  asleep, for  I'm getting  on in years.  Seeking
distraction, I picked up a  volume of Arabian Nights and read a tale about a
magician or, rather, a Genie, changing a person he disliked into a dog. Then
I  thought that if there really were Genies  in  the world (Hottabych  lying
under the bed  was  offended) and if one of them decided  to punish someone,
say a boy, for gossiping, tattling, and  thinking  poorly of his friends, he
could  cast  a spell on him that would make him  bark each time he wanted to
say  something bad.  Your son  and I just had a long talk  and we discovered
that he could recite a poem by Pushkin without barking  at all and  speak of
you with hardly a small bark, and then  bark incessantly when talking of his
friends or the school newspaper, in which he had apparently  been criticized
several  times. Do you understand what  I'm  getting at? I do hope I've made
myself clear."
     "Do you mean," Goga's mother said thoughtfully, "that..."
     "Exactly. Naturally, there aren't any Genies and  there never were any.
(Hottabych again felt  hurt, this time even more than before.) What your son
has is a very strange kind of psychological trauma. And I must warn you that
he will continue barking in the future...."
     "Oh my goodness!" the poor woman wailed.
     "Yes,  he will  bark  each time  he decides  to tattle  or  gossip,  or
whenever he  tries  to  say something  unpleasant.  And then  people will no
longer call  him  Goga Pilukin, but Bow-Wow Pilukin. And this will  continue
when he grows up, although no  one  will call  him that  to his face. As you
see, your  son may find himself in a very unhappy situation. However, if  he
makes  a  firm  resolution never  to tattle, gossip,  or spoil good people's
lives, I can guarantee you that he will stop barking once and for all."
     "Bow-Wow  Pilukin!"  Goga's  unfortunate mother thought and  shuddered.
"How horrible! I would never survive it. But what about some medicine? Won't
you at least write out a prescription for some medicine?"
     "In this case, no medicine will help. Well, young man, shall we give it
a try?"
     "And I won't bark at all any more?"
     "Everything depends entirely on you."
     "Then  you  won't leave  a prescription?"  Goga's  mother asked  again,
seeing that the doctor was about to leave.
     "I gave you my prescription,  the only one  that will work. However, we
can check  on it.  Now,  won't  you say a  few fair words  about your friend
Volka? I want you to pay special attention: I said 'fair.'"
     "Sure, Volka Kostylkov's a good fellow," Goga mumbled hesitantly, as if
he were just learning how to talk. "You're right dear,  dear doctor! This is
the first time since the geography exam that I  didn't bark  when  I  talked
about Volka! Hurray!"
     "Exactly what happened at  the  exam?"  the old  doctor  asked,  as  if
casually.
     "Why, nothing special. Can't a boy suddenly  become ill from overwork?"
Goga went on in a much more confident tone.
     "I guess  I'll be going along,"  Alexander Alexeyevich said. "I have to
visit  a  good  dozen real patients. I  take it  you understood  everything,
Goga?"
     "Yes! Oh, yes! Upon my word of honour! Thank you!"
     "Well, then, keep it up! Good-bye, everyone."
     "Where'd you disappear to?"  Volka  shouted  at  the old Genie  several
seconds later, as Hottabych crawled  back  to his place under his bed with a
very thoughtful expression-on his face.
     "Listen,  0  Volka,"  the  old man  said with  great solemnity.  I just
witnessed a  most unusual  scene: a spell  cast by a  Genie  was broken by a
human being! True, this was a very wise and very just human being. He was so
just  that I didn't even think  of  punishing him for not  believing  in  my
existence. Where are you going?
     "I have to visit Goga. I should really be ashamed of myself."
     "Yes, do go and visit your classmate. Though he is no longer ill."
     "Not ill at all? Did he get well so quickly?"
     "That depends entirely on him," Hottabych said.  And  pocketing his own
pride, he told Volka about the only known case of curing a boy who barked.


        HOTTABYCH AND MR. MONEYBAGS

     "0 blessed Volka," Hottabych said as he basked happily in the sun after
breakfast, "each time I  present you with gifts  which I consider  of  great
value  I  discover  they are the wrong kind of  gifts. Perhaps it would be a
better idea if you were to tell me what you and your young friend would care
for. I would consider it a great  honour and joy to fulfil your  wish on the
spot."
     "If that's the  case,  would you please  give  me a pair  of large navy
binoculars?" Volka said promptly.
     "With the greatest of pleasure and joy."
     "I'd  like a pair of  binoculars, too. I mean, if  it's all  right with
you," Zhenya added shyly.
     "Nothing could be simpler."
     The  three  of them set out for a large second-hand  shop, located on a
busy little side street in the  centre of the city. The shop was crowded and
our friends had difficulty in pushing their way to the  counter. There  were
so many odd  items on the shelves that they could  never be sorted according
to any system, for then  there would have to be a separate section for  each
item.
     "Show me,  0 sweet Volka, what these binoculars  so dear to your  heart
look  like," Hottabych  said happily but then suddenly turned pale and began
to tremble.
     He looked at his young friends sadly,  burst  into tears  and said in a
hollow voice, "Farewell, 0  light of my eyes!" Then, shoving  the  people in
the shop aside, he headed towards a grey-haired ruddy-complexioned foreigner
and fell to his knees before the man.
     "Order  me  as you  will,  for  I  am  your obedient and humble slave!"
Hottabych mumbled, swallowing his tears and  trying to kiss  the flap of the
foreigner's jacket.
     "Shame  on you, citizen, to go  begging in our times!"  one of the shop
assistants said to Hottabych.
     "And  so,  how many I should have  pay  you  for  this  bad  ring?" the
foreigner  continued nervously  in bad Russian,  after being interrupted  by
Hottabych.
     "Only ten roubles and seventy kopeks," the clerk answered "It certainly
is an odd item."
     The clerks of second-hand shops knew Mr. Moneybags  well though he  had
but recently arrived from abroad as a touring businessman. He  spent all his
free time combing the second-hand shops in the hope  of acquiring a treasure
for a song.
     "Quite recently he  had bought half a dozen china cups of the Lomonosov
Pottery very cheaply and now, just when an inconsolable Hottabych had fallen
to  his knees before  him,  he was pricing a  time-blackened  ring which the
clerk thought  was  made of  silver and Mr.  Moneybags  thought was  made of
platinum.
     When he received his purchase he put it in his vest pocket and left the
shop. Hottabych rushed out after him, wiping the  tears that poured down his
wrinkled old face. As he passed his friends, he barely had time to whisper:
     "Alas! This grey-haired foreigner holds the magic ring of Sulayman, the
Son of David (on the twain be  peace!). And I am the slave of this  ring and
must follow its owner.  Farewell, my  friends. I'll always remember you with
gratitude and love...."
     Only now, when  they  had  parted with Hottabych  forever, did the boys
realize how used to him they  had got. They left the shop in silence without
even looking at any binoculars and headed towards  the river bank, where, as
of late, they were wont to sit long hours having  heart-to-heart talks. They
lay on the  bank  for  a long time, right near the place where such a  short
while  ago  Volka  had  found the  slimy  clay  vessel with Hottabych.  They
recalled the old man's  funny but endearing ways  and became  more  and more
convinced that, when  all was said  and done, he had had a very pleasant and
kind nature.
     "There's  no use denying it.  We didn't appreciate  Hottabych  enough,"
Zhenya said critically and heaved a sigh.
     Volka  turned on his other side and was about to reply, but instead  he
jumped to his feet quickly and ran off.
     "Hurray! Hottabych is back! Hurray!"
     And true enough, Hassan Abdurrakhman ibn Hottab was approaching them in
a quick old man's  shuffle. Dangling over his  shoulder on  long straps were
two black leather cases containing large naval binoculars.

     HASSAN ABDURRAKHMAN IBM  HOTTAB'S STORY OF HIS ADVENTURES AFTER LEAVING
THE SHOP

     "Know ye,  0  my  young  friends,  that  my  story  is strange  and  my
adventures most unusual. I want you to sit beside me  while I tell you how I
came to be here again.
     "It so happened, that when the ruddy-faced foreigner left  the shop, he
continued on foot, in order to shake off a little of the fat that covers his
well-fed body so plentifully. He walked so quickly that I was barely able to
keep  up with  him.  I  caught up with him on another  street and  fell down
before him crying, 'Order me to follow you, 0 my master!'
     "But he would not listen and continued on his way. I caught up with him
eighteen times  in all and eighteen times  I fell on my knees before him and
eighteen times he left me where I was.
     "And so we continued on until we came to  his house. I wanted to follow
him in, but he shouted, 'You do not push into my rooms or I will  be calling
a militia man!' Then I asked him whether I was to stand  by his door all day
and he replied, 'Till next year if you want to!'
     "And I remained outside the  door,  for the words of  one who possesses
Sulayman's ring are law to me. And I stood there for some time until I heard
a noise  overhead  and the window opened. I  looked up and saw  a tall  thin
woman in a green silk dress standing by the window. Her laugh was bitter and
taunting. Behind her stood  the same foreigner who  now looked extremely put
out. The woman said derisively, 'Alas, how mistaken I was when I married you
fourteen years ago! You  always were  and  always  will  be a very  ordinary
haberdasher! My goodness,  not  to  be  able to tell a worthless silver ring
from a platinum one! Oh, if only my poor father had known!'
     "And  she tossed the ring down on the pavement and shut the window with
a bang.  I saw this and dropped senseless  to the ground, for if  Sulayman's
ring is  thrown  to  the  ground  terrible calamities  may occur. But then I
opened my eyes and became convinced that I was alive and nothing unfortunate
had happened. I gathered from this that I can consider myself lucky.
     "Then I jumped to my feet and blessed my fate. I picked up the ring and
ran  back to you, my friends, having previously procured the presents you so
desired. That's all I have to say."
     "It's just like  in a fairy-tale," Zhenya  cried excitedly when the old
man had finished his story. "Can I hold the magic ring a little?"
     "Of course! Put it on the index  finger of your left hand. Then turn it
and say your wish out loud. It will be fulfilled immediately."
     "Golly!"  Zhenya said, putting on the ring. He turned it  and said in a
loud  voice, "I want  a  bicycle right now!" All three held their breaths in
expectation. However, no bicycle appeared.
     Zhenya repeated  still louder, "I want to  have a  bicycle immediately!
This very minute!"
     But the bicycle just wouldn't appear.
     "Something must have gone wrong with  the ring,"  Volka said, taking it
from Zhenya  and looking  at  it closely.  "Look, there's  something written
inside. It's written in Russian!" he said and read aloud: "Wear this, Katya,
and remember me. Vasya Kukushkin, May 2, 1916."

        THE SAME AND MR. MONEYBAGS

     "Anyone  can make  a mistake," Volka said magnanimously,  looking  at a
confused Hottabych with sympathy. "I'm glad the ring has turned out to  be a
plain ordinary one. And thanks a lot for the presents."
     The boys turned away tactfully, took their binoculars  from the leather
cases and began  enjoying their wonderful presents. The far-off  houses came
right  up  to  the river, tiny dots  turned  into walking people, and  a car
speeding down  the  road seemed about to knock the happy  owner of a pair of
binoculars off his feet. One could not even dream of bigger enlargement.
     "Hottabych," Volka said  several minutes later,  "here, have  a look at
who's  coming towards  us."  He handed his binoculars over to Hottabych, who
had already discerned Mr. Harry  Moneybags in person walking rapidly towards
them. In fact, he was running, huffing and puffing from his great weight.
     When Mr. Moneybags noticed that he was being watched he slowed down and
continued on nonchalantly, as if he were in no hurry  at all, as if he  were
merely strolling  along to  get away  from the  city noises. W