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He looked at Nikolay mistrustfully and skeptically. Nikolay smiled. "Don't get angry," said the mother jokingly. Nikolay thoughtfully exclaimed: "How shall we get the leaflets about Rybin's arrest to the village?" Ignaty grew attentive. "I'll speak to Vyesovshchikov to-day." "Is there a leaflet already?" asked Ignaty. "Yes." "Give it to me. I'll take it."
"Mikhail Ivanovich also always used to say, 'That's it! like an ax blow." "Nilovna, you're evidently tired. Permit me I " The peasant pulled his feet uneasily. "That'll do;" said the mother, rising. "Well, Ignaty, now wash yourself." The young man arose, shifted his feet about, and stepped firmly on the floor. "They seem like new feet. Thank you! Many, many thanks!"
The mother lifted the hook, pushed the door with her foot, and Ignaty entered, saying cheerfully: "Well, so I'm not mistaken. I'm at the right place." He was spattered with mud up to his belt. His face was gray, his eyes fallen. "We've gotten into trouble in our place," he whispered, locking the door behind him. "I know it." The reply astonished the young man. He blinked and asked: "How?
Ignaty in embarrassment dropped his foot to the floor and wanted to rise, but staggered and fell heavily on the bench, catching himself with his hands. "You sit still!" exclaimed the mother. "How do you do, comrade?" said Nikolay, screwing up his eyes good-naturedly and nodding his head. "Allow me, I'll help you."
Ignaty rubbed his hands at the suggestion, his eyes flashing. "I know where and how. Let me." The mother laughed quietly, without looking at him. "Why, you're tired and afraid, and you said you'd never go there again!" Ignaty smacked his lips and stroked his curly hair with his broad palm. "I'm tired; I'll rest; and of course I'm afraid!" His manner was businesslike and calm.
"If people are killed by the thousands day after day working so that their masters may throw money away for sport, what else do you want?" "It's endlessly wearying to listen to him," said Ignaty in a low voice. "When you hear this sort of thing once, you never forget it, and he keeps harping on it all the time." "But everything is crowded into this one thing.
Ignaty shook his head and screwed up his eyes, and Yakob, standing at the wall again, angrily tore splinters from the boards with his blackened fingers. Yefim, behind the mother, slowly paced up and down along the length of the table.
Ignaty was sitting on the board, the newspaper spread on his knees, and his fingers run through his hair. He raised his head, gave the women a rapid glance, and bent over his paper again. Rybin was standing to let the ray of sun that penetrated a chink in the roof fall on his paper. He moved his lips as he read. Ignaty read kneeling, with his breast against the edge of the board.
Ignaty was dressed in a thick autumn overcoat of shaggy material. It pleased him; the mother observed how he stroked it admiringly with the palm of his hand, how he looked at himself, clumsily turning his powerful neck. Her bosom beat tenderly with, "My dears, my children, my own." "There!" said Ignaty, rising. "You'll remember, then? First you go to Muratov and ask for grandfather."
Ignaty, stroking his hair in confusion, announced: "No, there isn't; I spilled it." All three laughed. They spoke about milk, but the mother and Sofya felt that they were thinking of something else, and without words were wishing them well.
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