The old man and the boy lay down side by side in the grass, making pillows for their heads of their jackets. The dark leaves of the rugged many-branching oaks murmured above them; occasionally through the shade gleamed patches of bright blue sky; the little streams running from stone to stone chattered monotonously and stealthily as if they were putting someone to sleep by sorcery. Grandfather turned from side to side, muttered something to Sergey, but to Sergey his voice seemed far away in a soft and sleepy distance, and the words were strange, as those spoken in a fairy tale. "First of all--I buy you a costume, rose and gold ... slippers also of rose-coloured satin ... in Kief or Kharkof, or, perhaps, let us say in the town of Odessa--there, brother, there are circuses, if you like!... Endless lanterns ... all electricity.... People, perhaps five thousand, perhaps more ... how should I know. We should have to make up a name for you--an Italian name, of course. What can one do with a name like Esteepheyef, or let us say, Lodishkin? Quite absurd! No imagination in them whatever. So we'd let you go on the placards as Antonio, or perhaps, also quite good, Enrico or Alphonse...." The boy heard no more. A sweet and gentle slumber settled down upon him and took possession of his body. And grandfather fell asleep, losing suddenly the thread of his favourite after-dinner thoughts, his dream of Sergey's magnificent acrobatic future. Once, however, in his dream it appeared to him that Arto was growling at somebody. For a moment through his dreamy brain there passed the half-conscious and alarming remembrance of the porter in the rose-coloured blouse, but overcome with sleep, tiredness and heat, he could not get up, but only idly, with closed eyes, cried out to the dog: "Arto ... where're you going? I'll g-give it you, gipsy!" But at once he forgot what he was talking about, and his mind fell back into the heaviness of sleep and vague dreams. At last the voice of Sergey woke him up, for the boy was running to and fro just beyond the stream, shouting loudly and whistling, calling anxiously for the dog. "Here, Arto! Come back! Pheu, pheu! Come back, Arto!" "What are you howling about, Sergey?" cried Lodishkin in a tone of displeasure, trying to bring the circulation back to a sleeping arm. "We've lost the dog whilst we slept. That's what we've done," answered the boy in a harsh, scolding note. "The dog's lost." He whistled again sharply, and cried: "Arto-o-o!" "Ah, you're just making up nonsense! He'll return," said grandfather. But all the same, he also got up and began to call the dog in an angry, sleepy, old man's falsetto: "Arto! Here, dog!" The old man hurriedly and tremblingly ran across the bridge and began to go upward along the highway, calling the dog as he went. In front of him lay the bright, white stripe of the road, level and clear for half a mile, but on it not a figure, not a shadow.