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In a flash Oscar turned about, made one great leap down the hill-side and away across the field like a madman. Behind him came the Finks, scarcely touching the ground. Down the other side ran the Lucerner fast on the heels of the Schwyzer, who tripped, and both went headlong into a ditch. Feklitus was the only one who kept his ground. He knew who he was; Fortunatus, the only son of Mr. Bickel.
"Would it not be best to take a look outside and see whether there is any danger of our being discovered?" "Yaw I finks so." In passing out, Hans trod upon the outstretched arm of his wife, but her sleep was so sound that she did not awaken.
'Well, you see, we shall have to get married first, and that takes time. I think you'll have to come to the wedding. Bobby's face was a picture of shining joy. 'I finks your news is lovely. Me and Nobbles have never been to a wedding. 'Will you ask me, too? asked True. 'Yes, I will. I want to have it very soon, and here in London; but Lady Isobel wants to wait a little.
Isn't he a lazy brute? I assure you, though I have only the use of an acre and a half with my lodgings, you will always find radishes, and salad, and fennel, and onions, while that blackguard buys everything at the market." "He is a Russian, there is no doing anything with him," said Finks with a condescending smile; "it's in the Russian blood. . . . They are a very lazy people!
"Stay a little, we will have some tea; then you shall go." Finks obediently puts down his hat on the table and remains to drink tea. Over their tea Lyashkevsky maintains that the natives are hopelessly ruined, that there is only one thing to do, to take them all indiscriminately and send them under strict escort to hard labour.
'Father, dear, do tell me about your sad finks. I know they're sad from your face. It was Bobby. His father looked down upon him for a minute, then without a word led him into a field which ran up at the back of their garden.
BETWEEN nine and ten in the morning. Ivan Lyashkevsky, a lieutenant of Polish origin, who has at some time or other been wounded in the head, and now lives on his pension in a town in one of the southern provinces, is sitting in his lodgings at the open window talking to Franz Stepanitch Finks, the town architect, who has come in to see him for a minute.
While he is asleep, Lyashkevsky, who does not approve of an afternoon nap, sits at the window, stares at the dozing native, and grumbles: "Race of curs! I wonder you don't choke with laziness. No work, no intellectual or moral interests, nothing but vegetating . . . . disgusting. Tfoo!" At six o'clock Finks wakes up. "It's too late to go to the high school now," he says, stretching.
Bug had a genius for praying briefly and for others rather than for himself. Tonight he merely clasped his chubby hands and said, reverently: "Dear Dod, please ist make Vic dood as folks finks he is, for Thwist's sake. Amen-n-n." When he fell asleep, Victor sat a long while staring at the window where the May rain was beating heavily.
When he was gone around the corner of the kitchen, the little girl left her high bench and sat down crossly upon the door-step. "He's always 'busing me," she complained. "When I want to do anyfing, he says I'm too little; but when he wants me to do anyfing he finks I'm big enough." "Now, pet lamb," said her mother, "you don't have to herd if you don't want to.
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