"What do you
want with fighting?"
"I WILL fight!" answered Fedya in a low voice.
When he left, the mother said to Pavel:
"This young man will go down sooner than all the rest."
Pavel was silent.
A few minutes later the kitchen door opened slowly and Rybin entered.
"Good evening!" he said, smiling. "Here I am again. Yesterday
they brought me here; to-day I come of my own accord. Yes, yes!"
He gave Pavel a vigorous handshake, then put his hand on the mother's
shoulder, and asked: "Will you give me tea?"
Pavel silently regarded his swarthy, broad countenance, his thick,
black beard, and dark, intelligent eyes. A certain gravity spoke
out of their calm gaze; his stalwart figure inspired confidence.
The mother went into the kitchen to prepare the samovar. Rybin sat
down, stroked his beard, and placing his elbows on the table,
scanned Pavel with his dark look.
"That's the way it is," he said, as if continuing an interrupted
conversation. "I must have a frank talk with you. I observed you
long before I came. We live almost next door to each other. I see
many people come to you, and no drunkenness, no carrying on. That's
the main thing.
Pages:
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105