And suddenly he shouted to me: "Go on reading, you bone of the devil!" Again he wept, with even more violence and bitterness, when I read how _Ostap_ cried, out before his death, "Father, dost thou hear?" "Ruined utterly!" exclaimed Smouri. "Utterly! Is that the end? _Ekh!_ What an accursed business! He was a man, that _Tar ass._ What do you think? Yes, he was a man." He took the book out of my hands and looked at it with attention, letting his tears fall on its binding. "It is a fine book, a regular treat." After this we read "Ivanhoe." Smouri was very pleased with Richard Plantagenet. "That was a real king," he said impressively. To me the book had appeared dry. In fact, our tastes did not agree at all. I had a great liking for "The Story of Thomas Jones," an old translation of "The History of Tom Jones, Foundling," but Smouri grumbled: "Rubbish! What do I care about your Thomas? Of what use is he to me? There must be some other books." One day I told him that I knew that there were other books, forbidden books. One could read them only at night, in underground rooms. He opened his eyes wide. "Wha-a-t's that? Why do you tell me these lies?" "I am not telling lies. The priest asked me about them when I went to confession, and, for that matter, I myself have seen people reading them and crying over them." The cook looked sternly in my face and asked: "Who was crying?" "The lady who was listening, and the other actually ran away because she was frightened." "You were asleep. You were dreaming," said Smouri, slowly covering his eyes, and after a silence he muttered: "But of course there must be something hidden from me somewhere. I am not so old as all that, and with my character--well, however that may be--" He spoke to me eloquently for a whole hour. Imperceptibly I acquired the habit of reading, and took up a book with pleasure. What I read therein was pleasantly different from life, which was becoming harder and harder for me. Smouri also recreated himself by reading, and often took me from my work. "Pyeshkov, come and read." "I have a lot of washing up to do." "Let Maxim wash up." He coarsely ordered the senior kitchen-helper to do my work, and this man would break the glasses out of spite, while the chief steward told me quietly: "I shall have you put off the boat." One day Maxim on purpose placed several glasses in a bowl of dirty water and tea-leaves. I emptied the water overboard, and the glasses went flying with it. "It is my fault," said Smouri to the head steward. "Put it down to my account." The dining-room attendants began to look at me with lowering brows, and they used to say: _"Ei!_ you bookworm! What are you paid for?" And they used to try and make as much work as they could for me, soiling plates needlessly. I was sure that this would end badly for me, and I was not mistaken.