t I've heard of it." The owner of the shooting gallery was clearly bored to death by this moustached gossip. His expression was courteous and dignified, but he was on the verge of yawning, and he twirled a little green box of cartridges in his fingers. He thought, and rightly so, that if a man came to shoot he ought to shoot. And if he wanted to have a chat, that was all right too-but in between shots. A chat on some interesting topic, naturally, like the races at the velodrome or the Russo-Japanese war. Deathly boredom was written all over his seedy face, the face of a failure, racked by secret passions. Gavrik felt sorry for him from the bottom of his heart. Like all the other children, he was for some reason very fond of this man with slanting side-whiskers, legs as bowed as a dachshund's, and a hairy, heavily tattooed chest showing through his thin undershirt. Gavrik knew that although the man made quite a decent living he never had a kopek to his name. He was always in debt, was always very worried about something. Rumour had it that he used to be a famous circus rider, and that once he had struck the owner of the circus across the face with his whip for having done something mean. He was sacked and black-listed. Deprived of his livelihood, he took to betting at the horse-races, and this was his downfall. Now he played at all games of chance; even at pitching coins with little boys. He was eternally in the grip of a frightful gambling fever. It was a known fact that at times he gambled away the clothes he wore. The shoes he had on, for example, did not belong to him. He had lost them at the beginning of the summer playing twenty-one, and now when he closed his place for the night he went home barefoot, carrying under his arm a box with the rifles and pistols; afraid of gambling them away, he left them for safekeeping until the morning with a janitor acquaintance of his in Malaya Arnautskaya Street. Once, on the beach, Gavrik himself had seen him bet a gentleman fifty kopeks that he could hit a sparrow on the fly from a Monte Cristo. Of course, he missed. What followed was so pitiful that Gavrik felt like crying. With a shameful show of surprise the man examined the gun for a long time, then shrugged his shoulders and reached inside his mended jacket. His face was pale. He brought out a fifty-kopek piece and handed it to the gentleman. The gentleman laughingly protested that it had all been in fun. But the proprietor of the shooting gallery suddenly looked at him with such insane, pathetic and at the same time ominously bloodshot eyes that the gentleman quickly took the coin, and, embarrassed, put it in the pocket of his pongee jacket. That day the shooting gallery did not close for dinner. "If I were you, sir, I'd try a shot at the ballet dancer and see how saucily she kicks up her legs," said the proprietor in his Polish accent. He clearly wanted to put an end to the boring conversation and get the visitor to shoot. "It's strange, though, that no one knows anything about it," the latter said. Just then he noticed Gavrik. He gave him a quick glance from head to foot. "Do you live here, son?" "Yes," said the boy. His voice was unusually thin. "Your people fishermen?" "Yes." "Why so shy? Come closer, don't be afraid." Gavrik looked at the coarse, tightly-twirled moustache which was as black as boot-polish, at the long strip of adhesive plaster across the cheek, and, terrified, approached the man, mechanically putting one foot in front of the other. 18 QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS "Your father and mother alive?" "No." "Then who do you live with?" "Grandpa." "Who's he?" "An old man." "Naturally-but what does he do for a living?" "He catches fish." "A fisherman, eh?" "Yes, a fisher." "And what are you?" "A boy." "I can see you're a boy and not a girl. What I'm asking you is what do you do?" "Oh, nothing. I help Grandpa." "That means you go out fishing together, eh?" "Uh-huh." "I see. Well, then, how do you fish?" "Why, we just put out the line for the night, and the next morning we pull out the bullheads." "That means you go out to sea in a boat, doesn't it?" "Uh-huh." "Every day?" "What's that?" "What a little blockhead you are! What I'm asking you is this: do you go out in the boat every day?" " 'Course we do." "Morning and evening?" "No." "How's that?" "Only mornings." "What about the evening?" "Well, evenings too." "Then why do you say only mornings when it's evenings too?" "No. Evenings we only put out the line. We pull out the bullheads in the morning." "I see. That means you go out evenings too." "No. Evenings we only put it out." "For God's sake! But to put it out don't you have to go out to sea first?" "Course we do. " "That means you go out evenings too, doesn't it?" "No, evenings we don't pull out. We only pull out mornings." "But in the evening you go out to put out the line, don't you?" " 'Course we do." "That means you go out evenings too, doesn't it?" "Uh-huh." "What a little blockhead you are! A man has to have a good meal under his belt before he tries talking to you. What makes you so stupid?" "I'm only a kid." With an unconcealed sneer the moustached gentleman surveyed Gavrik from top to toe and then gave him a fillip-quite a smart one-on the head. "A fine fisherman you are!" But the boy was by no means a blockhead. He had immediately sensed a sly and dangerous enemy in this man with the moustaches. There he was, wandering along the shore asking questions about the sailor. He was only making believe he'd come in here to shoot. Who could tell what he really was after? Most likely he was a detective. Why, he might even find out somehow that the runaway was hiding in their hut! Perhaps-God forbid!- he had found it out already. Gavrik had decided at once to act the fool. You couldn't learn much from a fool. He twisted his face into the stupid expression he thought a little half-wit should wear; he goggled his eyes, shifted from foot to foot with exaggerated embarrassment, and picked at a sore on his lip. When he saw he was dealing with a hopeless idiot, Moustaches thought it best to make friends with him first and pump him afterwards. He reasoned, not without foundation, that children were an inquisitive and observant lot and knew more than grown-ups about what was going on around them. "What's your name, sonny?" "Gavrik." "Well, look here, Gavrik, would you like to shoot?" A warm flush coloured the boy's face to the very tips of his ears. He instantly collected himself, however. "But I've no money," he said in a thin, squeaky voice, playing the fool. "I know that, but it doesn't matter. You can take a shot. I'll pay." "You're not making fun of me?" "Don't trust me? Well, look." With these words Moustaches laid a big brand-new five-kopek piece on the counter. "Shoot away." Gavrik, overcome with happiness, looked in indecision at the proprietor. But the latter's face had taken on such a strictly formal expression that an exchange of friendly winks was obviously out of the question. He looked at the boy as if he had never seen him before, and, leaning respectfully over the counter, said, "Which would you prefer to use, young man? A pistol or a rifle?" Gavrik was so bowled over by unexpected happiness that he really did feel like a half-wit now. "A Monte Cristo," he stammered, a silly grin on his face. With a flourish the proprietor loaded the gun and handed it to the boy. Breathing heavily, he glued himself to the counter and aimed at a bottle. The Japanese battleship appealed to him much more, of course, but he was afraid of missing. The bottle was a big one. He tried to prolong the pleasure of aiming as much as possible. After aiming at the bottle for a while he shifted to a hare, then to the battleship, and then back to the bottle. He moved the sight from one bull's-eye to another, swallowing his saliva and thinking in horror that the moment he fired, the bliss would come to an end. Finally he took a deep breath and put the rifle down. "You know what," he said to Moustaches, with a guilty look at the proprietor, "I think I won't. I aimed, and that's almost as good. Treat me instead to a drink of soda water with syrup at the stand. Besides, it'll cost you less." Moustaches had no objections. Making an effort not to look at the proprietor, whose expression was a mixture of contempt and ironic indifference, they set out for the stand. There Moustaches displayed such generosity that the boy could only gasp. Instead of water and syrup, which cost two kopeks, he ordered nothing less than a whole big bottle of Violet Soda, costing eight kopeks. Gavrik could not believe his eyes when the stand-keeper brought out the white bottle with the violet label and unwound the thin wire round the cork. The bottle popped. Not in the coarse way kvass bottles popped, but gently, with style. The clear water immediately began to foam, and out of the mouth of the bottle there poured a gas which actually did give off the delicate fragrance of real violets. Gavrik carefully picked up the cold bubbling glass with both hands, as if it were a treasure, and, squinting against the sun, began to drink. He could feel the sweet-smelling gas shooting up into his nose from his throat. As he swallowed this magic nectar of the wealthy, he felt that the whole universe was gazing upon him in this moment of triumph: the sun, the clouds, the sea, people, dogs, cyclists, the wooden horses of the merry-go-round, the girl who sold tickets at the municipal bathing beach. And they were all saying, "Look, look, that boy is drinking Violet Soda!" A little turquoise lizard had popped out of the weeds to warm its beady back in the sun, and as it clung to a rock with one paw it squinted up at him as if it, too, were saying, "Look, isn't he a lucky boy to be drinking Violet Soda!" While he drank Gavrik pondered on how to wriggle out of any further questions Moustaches might ask him. He thought up a whole plan. "Well, Gavrik, like the Violet Soda?" "Thanks. Never tasted anything so good in all my life." "I should think so. Now tell me, did you go out to sea yesterday evening?" "Uh-huh." "Did you see the Turgenev?" " 'Course! She almost ripped our line to pieces with her wheels." "A man didn't jump from the ship, did he?" Moustaches fixed his bushy black eyes on the boy. Gavrik forced his mouth into a grin. "So help me God, a man did jump off!" he said with exaggerated excitement. "May I drop dead on the spot! Bango!-right into the water, and what a splash! And how he swam!" "Wait a minute. Not making anything up, are you? Which way did he swim?" "So help me God I'm not! By the true and holy Cross!" Although Gavrik knew it was a sin, he quickly crossed himself four times. "And then he swam and swam-" The boy waved his arms to show how the sailor had swum. "Which way?" "That way." The boy waved his arm in the direction of the sea. "And what happened to him after that?" "After that a boat picked him up." "A boat? What kind?" "You know, a big one, a great big Ochakov boat with a sail." "From hereabouts?" "No." "Then where from?" "From Bolshoi Fontan. Or maybe from Lustdorf. All painted blue, and half red. A great big one. It picked him up and after that it headed straight for Lustdorf. By the true and holy-" "Did you notice the boat's name?" " 'Course I did: Sonya." "Sonya, eh? That's fine. Not lying, are you?" "By the true and holy Cross! May I never be happy in all my life! It was Sonya, or else Vera." "Sonya or Vera?" "Either Sonya or Vera-or else Nadya." "If you're lying-" Instead of paying for the drinks, Moustaches whispered something into the stand-keeper's ear, something that instantly made his expression turn sour. Then he nodded to the boy and hurriedly set out for the hill, obviously to take the suburban train to town. That was just what Gavrik had expected him to do. 19 A POUND AND A HALF OF RYE BREAD The sailor had to be warned immediately. But Gavrik was a smart and cautious boy, and before returning home he followed Moustaches from a distance until with his own eyes he saw him climb the hill and turn down the lane. Only then did he run back to the hut. The sailor was asleep, but at the click of the padlock he sprang to his feet and then sat down on the bed, looking at the door with glittering, frightened eyes. "Don't be afraid, it's me. Lie down." The sick man lay down again. The boy pottered about a long time in the corner, pretending to examine the hooks of the line, which was folded inside a round wicker basket. He did not know how to begin so as not to excite the sick man too much. Finally he came up to the bed and stood there for a while, scratching one foot with the other. "Feel better?" "Yes." "Your head clear?" "Yes." "Hungry?" This conversation, brief though it was, completely exhausted the sailor. He shook his head and closed his eyes. The boy let him rest. After a while he spoke again. "Listen," he said affectionately, in a low but persistent voice, "was it you jumped from the Turgenev yesterday?" The sick man opened his eyes and looked up at the boy very intently, but made no reply. "Listen to what I'm going to say," Gavrik whispered, sitting down on the bed. "Only lie quiet and don't get excited." Then, as circumspectly as he could, he told the sailor about his acquaintance with the moustached man. Again the sailor sprang to his feet and sat down on the bed, gripping the edge of it to hold himself erect. He stared at the boy with round, motionless eyes. His forehead had become damp. But he did not say a word. Only once did he break his silence. That was when Gavrik mentioned the adhesive plaster on Moustaches' cheek. At this point of the story a mischievous, devil-may-care Ukrainian twinkle flickered in the sick man's eyes, and he said hoarsely, through his teeth, "A cat must have scratched him." Suddenly he began to fidget, and then, steadying himself against the wall, he stood up on his shaky legs. "Come on," he muttered, looking round wildly. "Come on, let's go somewhere. For Christ's sake!" "Get back in bed, uncle, you're sick." "Come on . . . give me my kit. Where's my kit?" He had evidently forgotten that he had thrown off his clothes in the sea. His thin hand fumbled helplessly about the bed. Unshaven, in a white undershirt and drawers, he looked like a madman. His appearance was so pathetic, but at the same time so ominous that Gavrik nearly ran away in fright. He fought down his fear, however. He put his arms round the sick man's waist and tried to force him to lie down. "It's for your own good. Lie down, it's for your own good," he said, almost crying. "Hands off. I'm going now." "But how can you go anywhere in your drawers?" "Give me my kit." "What are you talking about? What kit? You didn't have any. Now lie quiet." "Let me go." "If you only knew what an awful nuisance you are! You're just like a baby. Lie down, I tell you!" the boy suddenly cried out in anger, losing his patience. "Stop acting like a baby!" The sailor lay back submissively, and Gavrik saw a feverish glaze come into his eyes again. The sailor began to moan softly, screwing up his face and arching his back. "For Christ's sake! Let somebody hide me. Let me go to the Committee. Can you tell me where the Odessa Committee is? Don't shoot, damn you, or you'll spoil all the grapes-" He began to rave. "Things are in a bad way," thought Gavrik. Just then he heard footsteps outside. Someone was coming straight to the hut, noisily making his way through the weeds. The boy hunched his shoulders, not daring to breathe. A host of terrifying thoughts raced through his head. But then suddenly he heard a familiar cough. Grandpa entered the hut. From the way he dropped the empty fish tank near the door, from the way he blew his nose and crossed himself long and bitterly as he looked at the icon of the miracle worker, Gavrik unerringly guessed that he had had a drink. This was something Grandpa did only once in a blue moon, when something out of the ordinary happened- whether good or bad. Judging by his attitude towards St. Nicholas, the occasion this time was sooner bad than good. "Well, Grandpa, buy meat for bait?" "Meat for bait?" The old man gave the boy a guileless look and then held a figged thumb under his nose. "Here's your meat! Bait it! And thank that old codger of a miracle worker for it. That's what I get for praying to that old fool, may he burst! When it comes to catching big-sized bullheads he's on the spot, but when it comes to getting a decent price for them at the market he's nowhere to be found! Can you imagine, gentlemen? Thirty kopeks a hundred for bullheads like that! It's unheard-of!" "Thirty kopeks a hundred!" the boy exclaimed. "Thirty kopeks, may I drop dead on the spot! Thirty kopeks for fish like this?' I says to her. 'Ain't you got no fear of God, Madam Storozhenko?' 'God's got nothing to do with market prices,' she says to me. 'We've got our own prices and he's got his. And if you don't like my price you can take your bullheads and sell them to the Jews. Maybe they'll give you a kopek more. Only first pay me back the eighty kopeks you owe me.' Ever seen the like? Now tell me, shouldn't I have spit straight in her damned eye for that? Well, gentlemen, that's just what I did. Right in front of the whole market, too! So help me God, I filled her eye with spit!" Grandpa hurriedly crossed himself. But he was not telling the truth. Naturally, he had not spat in anybody's eye. He had merely turned pale and begun to tremble from head to foot, and then he had pulled the fish out of the tank and thrown them into Madam Storozhenko's basket, muttering, "Here, take 'em, and I hope they choke you!" As for Madam Storozhenko, she calmly counted the fish and handed Grandpa twelve kopeks in sticky coppers. "Now we're quits," she said briefly. Grandpa took the money and, boiling with futile rage, went straight to a spirits shop where he bought himself a bottle of vodka. He scraped off the red sealing-wax against the grater nailed for the purpose to an acacia tree near the shop, and then with a shaking hand knocked out the little paper-wrapped cork. He poured the vodka down his throat in one go and smashed the thin bottle against the pavement, although he could have got a kopek for it. After that he set out for home. On the way he bought his grandson a red lollipop in the shape of a cock for a kopek-he still imagined Gavrik to be a little boy-and two very white and very sour rolls for the sick sailor. With the remaining money he bought a pound and a half of rye bread. His anger flared up again and again on the way home, and he stopped about a dozen times to spit furiously this way and that, absolutely convinced that he was spitting in Madam Storozhenko's accursed eye. "So help me God!" he said, breathing the sweetish odour of vodka straight into Gavrik's face and putting the lollipop cock into his hand. "Ask anybody you like at the market-the whole market saw me spit into her damned eye! And now, my child, suck this lollipop. It's just as good as cake." At this point the old man remembered the patient and began to urge the rolls on him. "Let him be, Grandpa. He just fell asleep. Let him rest." Grandpa carefully laid the rolls on the pillow beside the sailor's head and said in a whisper, "Shh, shh. Let him rest now. And later, when he wakes up, he'll eat. He can't eat the rye bread because his stomach is very weak now, but the rolls are all right for him." The old man looked down affectionately at the rolls and at the patient, then shook his head and remarked in a gentle voice, "Look how peacefully he sleeps. Ah, sailor, sailor, you're in a tight spot." Then he spread out his jacket in the corner and lay down to rest. Gavrik went outside, looked round, and closed the door firmly after him. He had decided to go, without wasting a minute, to Near Mills to see his brother Terenti. This decision had come to him the moment he heard the delirious sailor pronounce the word "Committee". Gavrik did not know exactly what this word meant, but he had once heard Terenti use it. 20 MORNING When Petya woke up, he was amazed to find himself in his city room, surrounded by furniture and wallpaper he had forgotten during the summer. A dry sunbeam coming through a crack in the shutter pierced the room. It cut a diagonal swath through the dusty air from top to bottom. The sawdusty air-motes of dust and tiny threads and hairs, moving and yet motionless-was brightly lit by the sunbeam and formed a semi-transparent wall. A big autumn fly blazed into colour as it flew through this wall, and then it just as suddenly became drab again. There was neither the quack of ducks nor the hysterics of a hen that had just laid an egg behind the house, neither the silly chatter of turkeys nor the fresh chirp of a sparrow, swaying almost inside the window on a thin mulberry branch bent in an arch under its weight. The noises both inside and outside the flat were altogether different: they were city noises. From the dining-room came the faint clatter of chairs being moved. There was a musical sound-the singing of a glass as it was washed in the rinsing-bowl. Father's "bearded" voice rang out, with a deep and strange city note to it. The buzz of the electric bell filled the hall. Doors were slammed, now the front door, now the kitchen door, and suddenly Petya discovered that he could tell from the sound which one it was. Meanwhile from outside, through a room with a window facing the yard-why, of course, that was Auntie Tatyana's room!-came the singing of the hawkers. Not for a minute did it cease, for they made their appearance one after the other, those roving artists of the courtyard stage, each performing his brief aria. "Cha-a-arcoal! Cha-a-arcoal!" sang a distant Russian tenor, as if sadly recalling the gay, carefree days of long ago. "Cha-a-a-arcoal!" His place was taken by a comic basso-the grinder: "Sharpen knives, scissors, razors! Sharpen knives, scissors, razors! Knives, scissors, razors!" After the grinder came a tinker, filling the yard with the manly roulades of his velvety baritone: "Pots to mend! Kettles and pails to mend!" A hucksteress with no gift for singing at all ran into the yard, and the sultry morning air of the city resounded with her burring recitative: "Pears, apples, tomatoes! Pears, apples, tomatoes!" An old-clothes man poured out plaintive Jewish couplets: "I cash clothes! I cash . . . I cash. . .." Finally, to crown the concert, came a lovely Neapolitan canzonet performed by a brand-new Nechada barrel-organ and a shrill-voiced street singer: The leaves in the wind softly sigh, Hark to the nightingale's trills! My love was once simple and shy, But today she parades in silk frills. Sing to me, O dove, Of my departed love.... "Cha-a-arcoal! Cha-a-arcoal!" sang the Russian tenor the minute the barrel-organ went away. The concert had begun all over again. Meanwhile the clatter of droshkies, the rumble of a suburban train and the blare of an army band came from the street proper. Into that din there suddenly broke a frightfully familiar whirring noise, a click and then clear, springy sounds, coming distinctly one after the other, as though counting something. What could that be? Why, that was the clock! The very same dining-room clock which, according to family legend, Daddy had won in a lottery when he was courting Mummy. And to think that he had forgotten it! Why, of course, that was the clock! It was striking the hour. He lost count, but he gathered nevertheless that it was very late-ten or eleven. Goodness! In the country he used to get up at seven! Petya sprang out of bed, threw on his clothes, washed himself-in a bathroom!-and walked into the dining-room, squinting against the sun which lay on the parquet in hot bars. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" exclaimed Auntie, shaking her head and at the same time smiling with pleasure at the sight of her tall, sunburned nephew. "It's eleven o'clock. We purposely didn't wake you-we wanted to see how long you'd lounge in bed, you country loafer. But that's all right, after your long journey. And now sit down, don't dawdle. With milk or without? In a glass or in your own cup?" Why, naturally! How had he ever forgotten? His cup! Why, of course, he had his own cup, a porcelain cup with forget-me-nots and an inscription in gold letters, "Happy Birthday"-last year's gift from Dunya. And look-the samovar! That, too, he had forgotten. And there were the buns warming on its handles. The pear-shaped sugar bowl of white metal. The sugar tongs in the shape of a stork. Look-there was the acorn bell on a cord under the hanging lamp! And the lamp itself, with the round little counterweight, filled with shot, above the white shade! And look-what was that in Father's hands? Why, a newspaper! And to think he'd forgotten such things existed! It was the Odessky Listok, with the picture of a smoking locomotive above the railway timetable, and a smoking ship above the boat timetable. (And among the ads, a lady in a corset!) And here were the Niva and Zadushevnoye Slovo. How many magazines had piled up during the summer! In a word, Petya found himself surrounded by such a host of old novelties that he didn't know where to look first. Pavlik, though, had got up at the crack of dawn and by now was fully at home in the new-old surroundings. He had long since drunk his milk, and at the moment was busy harnessing Kudlatka to a coach made up of chairs. Every now and then he ran from room to room with a worried look on his face, blowing his horn to summon the imaginary passengers. Petya jumped to his feet: he had remembered! "Oh, Auntie! Yesterday I didn't have time to tell you! You simply can't imagine what happened. Now I'll tell you the story-only Pavlik, you mustn't interrupt." "But I know all about it." Petya turned pale. "About the coach?" "Yes." "The boat too?" "Yes." "And how he jumped straight into the sea?" "I know the whole story." "Who told you?" "Father." "Oh, Daddy!" Petya cried out in despair, stamping his feet. "Why did you tell the story when you know I can tell it much better than you! Now you've spoiled it all!" Petya was almost crying. He had completely forgotten that he was a big boy now, and was to go to school the next day. He began to whine. "Auntie Tatyana, do let me tell you the story all over again. I'll tell it much better." But Auntie's nose suddenly turned red and tears came to her eyes. She pressed her fingers to her temples. "Oh please, please, don't," she said in a suffering voice. "I simply can't bear to hear it again. How can people who call themselves Christians have the heart to torture one another so?" She turned away, dabbing at her nose with a tiny lace handkerchief. Petya glanced in fright at Father. Father sat very grave and very still, looking towards the window. Tears seemed to be glistening in his eyes, too. Petya couldn't make head or tail of it. All he did know was that here, at least, he would not have a chance to tell the story of yesterday's adventures. He gulped down his tea and went out into the yard in search of an audience. The janitor listened to the story with galling indifference! "Well, what of it?" he remarked. "Worse things happen." There was not another soul to whom he could tell the story. Nusya Kogan, the shopkeeper's boy, who lived in the same house, was away on a visit to his uncle at Kuyalnitsky Bay. Volodka Dibsky had moved away. The others had not yet returned from the country. Gavrik had left a message with Dunya that he would drop in today, but there was no sign of him yet. Gavrik was the one to tell the story to! What if he went to the beach to look up Gavrik? Petya was not allowed to go to the beach by himself, but the temptation was too great. He shoved his hands into his pockets, circled about nonchalantly under the windows, and then sauntered out into the street with the same nonchalance, so as not to arouse any suspicion. After walking up and down in front of the house for appearance's sake, he turned the corner and set off at a gallop for the beach. Halfway down the street where the warm sea baths stood, he ran into a barefoot boy. There was something familiar about him. . . . Who could he be? It was Gavrik himself! 21 WORD OF HONOUR "Gavrik!" "Petya!" It was with these brief exclamations of surprise and joy-and with nothing more-that the bosom friends greeted each other. They did not hug each other, or squeeze each other's hands, or look into each other's eyes, as girls undoubtedly would have done in their place. They did not ask about each other's health, or shout with glee, or make a fuss about it. They acted the way men should, men of the Black Sea coast: they expressed their feelings in curt, restrained exclamations and then at once got down to essentials, as if they had parted only the day before. "Where to?" "To the beach. What about you?" "To Near Mills, to my brother's." "What for?" "I have to. Want to come along?" "Near Mills?" "Why not?" "Near Mills-" Petya had never been in Near Mills. He knew only that it was awfully far away, "at the other end of the world". In his imagination, Near Mills was a mournful place inhabited by widows and orphans. Its name always cropped up in connection with some misfortune or other. The concept "Near Mills" was associated most frequently of all with a case of sudden death. People would say: "Have you heard the sad news? Angelika Ivanovna's husband died suddenly and left her without a kopek. She's given up her place in Marazlievskaya Street and gone to live in Near Mills." From Near Mills there was no return. And if anybody ever did return from there, it was in the form of a shadow, and not for long-for an hour, no more. People would say: "Yesterday Angelika Ivanovna-you know, the one whose husband died suddenly last year- came from Near Mills to pay us a visit. She stayed an hour, no more. You would hardly recognise her. A mere shadow-" Once Petya had gone with Father to the funeral of a schoolmaster who had died suddenly, and at the grave the priest said words which filled him with awe-about an "abode of the righteous, where they will repose", or something of the sort. There could not be the slightest doubt, of course, that "abode of the righteous" stood for Near Mills, where the relatives of the departed came somehow or other to "repose". Petya had a vivid mental picture of this sad abode with its multitude of windmills among which "reposed" the shadows of widows in black shawls and orphans in patched frocks. Naturally, going to Near Mills without permission was a dreadful thing to do. It was much worse than raiding the pantry for jam; worse, even, than bringing home a dead rat inside his shirt. It was a real crime. Petya was dying to accompany Gavrik to the weird land of mournful windmills and see the shadows of widows with his own eyes, but he could not make up his mind right off. The struggle with his conscience lasted about ten minutes. But his waverings, need it be said, in no way prevented him from walking along the street at Gavrik's side and breathlessly recounting his travel adventures. So that by the time Petya emerged victorious in the violent battle with his conscience-now a thoroughly crushed conscience-he and Gavrik had covered quite a distance. Among the boys of the Black Sea coast, indifference towards everything under the sun was considered the height of good form. Petya was therefore astonished to see his story make a tremendous impression upon Gavrik. Not once did Gavrik spit contemptuously over his shoulder, not once did he say, "Tell it to your grandmother". Moreover, it seemed to Petya that Gavrik was a bit frightened-which he at once put down to his talent as a story-teller. Enacting the terrifying scene, Petya turned red in the face. "Then this one hauls off and slams him right in the mug with a stick with a nail in it!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "It's the honest truth! And then that one yells 'Stop! Stop!' so loud you can hear him all over the Turgenev. You can spit in my eye if I'm lying. And then this one jumps on the rail and dives right into the sea- plunk!-and the spray flies up as high as the fourth storey, may I fall down dead if it doesn't! By the true and holy Cross!" So expressively did Petya jump about and swing his arms that he overturned a basket of string-beans in front of a grocer's shop, and they had to run two streets with their tongues hanging out to escape the proprietor. "What was the first one like?" asked Gavrik. "Did he have an anchor on his hand?" " 'Course he did!" Petya shouted excitedly, panting for breath. "Here?" Gavrik pointed to the place on his hand. " 'Course! But how do you know?" "As if I've never seen sailors!" muttered Gavrik, and he spat on the ground just like a grown-up. Petya looked at his friend with envy, and then he spat too. But he did not shoot out his spittle as expertly as Gavrik. Instead of flying a long way it dropped limply on his knee, and he had to wipe it off with his sleeve. Petya decided to polish up on his spitting there and then. He practised so diligently all the way that the next morning his lips were chapped and eating melon was painful. "What about the other one?" Gavrik asked. "Was he in sandals and did de wear glasses?" "Pince-nez." "Call 'em what you like." "But how do you know?" "As if I've never seen 'tecs!" When he finished his story Petya wetted his lips with his tongue and started it all over again from the beginning without pausing to catch his breath. Gavrik was going through unimaginable torments. Compared with what he knew, Petya's adventures weren't worth a fig! He'd just like to see Petya's face if he hinted that at this very moment the mysterious sailor was in their hut. But he had to keep silent and listen to Petya's blabber for a second time. It was more than human flesh could bear. What if he did drop a hint? Just a teeny one. No, no, not for anything! Petya would never keep it to himself. But suppose he made him give his word of honour? No, he'd let it out all the same. What if he made him cross himself in front of a church? Yes, in that case he probably wouldn't tell anybody. In a word, Gavrik was torn by doubts. The temptation was so great that every now and then he had to press his lips together with his fingers to keep from talking. Nothing helped, however. He wanted more than ever to tell his secret. In the meantime, Petya rattled on, showing how the coach had been travelling, how the frightful sailor had jumped out of the vineyard and attacked the coachman, how he, Petya, had yelled at him, and how the sailor had hidden under the seat. This was too much. "Give me your word of honour you won't tell anybody!" "Word of honour," said Petya quickly, without blinking an eye. "Swear it!" "So help me God, by the true and holy Cross! What is it?" "It's a secret." "Well?" "You won't tell anybody?" "May I never move from this spot if I do!" "Swear by your happiness!" "May I never be happy in all my life!" Petya said willingly. He was so curious he swallowed his saliva in big gulps. "May my eyes drop out of their sockets!" he added hurriedly, to give it more weight. "Well?" Gavrik walked along in silence for a while, breathing heavily and spitting on the ground. The struggle with temptation was still going on inside him, and temptation was gaining the upper hand. "Petya," he said hoarsely, "make the sign of the Cross in front of a church." Petya, burning with impatience, looked round for a church. The boys were at that moment walking past the limestone wall of Old Christian Cemetery. Along the wall sat vendors of wreaths and memorials, and over it could be seen the tops of old acacia trees and the marble wings of sorrowing angels. (Near Mills must indeed be next door to death, if the road to it ran past a graveyard!) In the dusty, pale-lilac sky, beyond the acacias and the angels, hung the blue cupola of the cemetery church, topped by a golden cross. Petya faced the church and crossed himself fervently. "By the true and holy Cross, I won't tell a soul!" he said with conviction. "Well?" "Listen, Petya-" Gavrik bit his lips and then began to chew the back of his hand. Tears stood in his eyes. "Listen, Petya. Eat some earth to swear you won't tell!" Petya studied the ground. Near the wall he saw earth that was fairly clean and looked suitable. He scratched some up with his fingernails. Then, sticking out a tongue as fresh and pink as boiled sausage, he placed a pinch of the earth on it. Eyes popping, he stared questioningly at Gavrik. "Eat it!" Gavrik said darkly. Petya closed his eyes tight and conscientiously chewed the earth. At that instant they heard a strange clinking noise in the road. Two soldiers with black shoulder straps, their swords bared, were leading a convict in chains. The third soldier of the escort detail walked behind, carrying a revolver and a thick delivery register with a marbled-paper cover. The convict wore a skull cap of army cloth and a robe of the same material, under which grey drawers were visible. He walked with his head bent. The rattling leg-irons were covered by the drawers, but the long chain of the handcuffs hung in front and clinked as it beat against the man's knees. From time to time he raised the chain, with the gesture of a priest raising the hem of his robe as he crosses a puddle. Clean-shaven and grey-faced, he looked somehow like a soldier or a sailor. You could see he was very much ashamed at having to walk down the roadway in broad daylight in that condition. He kept his eyes on the ground. The soldiers seemed ashamed too, but they angrily looked up instead of down, so as not to meet the eyes of the passers-by. The boys stopped. They gaped at the visorless caps the soldiers wore tilted to one side, at their blue revolver cords, and at the gleaming white blades of the swords in their swinging hands. The sun made a dazzling glare on the tips of the swords. "Keep moving," the soldier carrying the register gruffly ordered