"Jakov," called Petrusha, "run down to the police station; say the old rag-picker has gone to his God--make haste!"
"Oh you," cried Perfishka, who had come up again with them, "So you've been there already, eh?"
Terenti passed by his nephew and could not look him in the face; but Petrusha laid his hand on Ilya's shoulder and said:
"Crying, lad? Cry away! that's right, it shows you have a grateful heart, and understood what the old fellow did for you. He was very, very good to you."
After a while he took Ilya by the hand and led him aside saying:
"But you needn't stand right in the doorway, all the same."
Ilya wiped away the tears with his shirt sleeve and let his glance stray over the bystanders. Petrusha had gone behind the bar again and was throwing back his curls. In front of him stood Perfishka, looking at him with a mocking grin. His face had an expression as though he had just lost his last five-kopeck piece at pitch and toss.
"Well, what's the matter, Perfishka?" asked Petrusha as he drew the drink.
"Matter? Oh! Aren't you going to give me a fee?" he answered suddenly.
"How d'you mean? For what?" asked the potman, indifferently.
"Oh you scoundrel!" cried the cobbler crossly, and stamped on the ground. "My mouth's wide open, but the roast pigeon is not for me. Well, well, that's done, anyhow. Here's luck, Peter Sakinytsch."
"What's the matter? What are you jawing about?" asked Petrusha and smiled as unconcernedly as he could.
"I only mean--I'm speaking quite simply----"
"Ha! Ha!" the cobbler's gay laugh sounded loudly.
Ilya tossed his head as though to shake off something and went outside.
That night he lay down to sleep very late, and not in his corner of the cellar but in the tap room under the table where his uncle washed the glasses. The hunchback made a bed there for his nephew, then began to wash down the tables. A lamp burned on the bar, lighting up the bulging teapots and the bottles in the cupboards against the wall. In the room it was dark. The black night came close up to the window; a fine rain pattered on the panes and the wind rustled softly.
Like a great hedgehog, Terenti crept about between the tables, sighing frequently. Whenever he came near the lamp his figure threw a great black shadow on the floor. It seemed to Ilya that the soul of old Jeremy glided behind his uncle and whispered in his ear: