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Why, just see, how can he go to Moscow in such wrecks?" "Let him take my old ones; they are still quite good." "He must have trousers, anyway; he is a disgrace to look at." And immediately after that a storm-signal showed itself, at the sight of which all the family trembled. Shiryaev's short, fat neck turned suddenly red as a beetroot.
The mother huddled against the wall and waved her hands, as though it were not her son, but some phantom before her. "What have I done?" she wailed. "What?" Like his father, the boy waved his hands and ran into the yard. Shiryaev's house stood alone on a ravine which ran like a furrow for four miles along the steppe.
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