Long after the light was extinguished, I lay awake thinking of the tiger, my father's courage, my mother's anxiety, the wounded dog, and the dear cow. For some time, too, I could hear the low voices of my father and mother discussing the preparations for the morrow. One name, that of Tolochkin, was mentioned several times. I knew of this Tolochkin as a wonderful hunter of tigers. I had never seen him, however, for he lived more than forty miles away, and was peculiar in his habits, keeping much to himself. CHAPTER VIII WHAT CAME FROM ATTENDING A SKODKA The sun's rays were already brightening the room when I awoke next morning. I jumped up from the bench that formed my bed at night and looked around. The fire was burning brightly in the big stove, mother and sister were clearing the table. Father was gone! Quick as a flash, it occurred to me why he was away. He had gone to a _skodka_, a gathering of the villagers who are always called together when there is a grave matter to be discussed. My lips trembled in my disappointment, for I had hoped to go with father. I dressed hastily, and then grabbing up my fur cap and coat started for the door. Mother saw me and called out, "Where are you in such a hurry to go, you foolish boy? You're not washed nor combed, nor have you had a bite to eat." "I haven't time," I mumbled. "I have to go to the _skodka_." Mother, despite the seriousness of the situation, burst out laughing. "Do you think you are necessary," she inquired, "to deciding what ought to be done?" Then changing her tone she said, "Hang up your _shuba_ (overcoat), wash yourself, and breakfast, and then perhaps you can go." My pleadings to depart at once were in vain, and I had to do her bidding. I forgot the disappointment somewhat, in attacking with relish the well-prepared buckwheat porridge, rye bread, and tea. The instant I was through, nothing could prevent me from running to the _skodka_. When I reached Fedoraev's log house, which my mother had told me was the place of meeting, I found the front room filled with neighbors. Peter, who was at the door under the low-eaved portico, pointed out a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a heavy beard and bushy hair and brows, as the renowned Tolochkin. I gazed at him with all my might. "How many tigers has he killed?" I asked Peter in a whisper. "Forty!" came the answer. "And you ought to see the bear and deer skins which I saw in his yard the latter part of January." I turned to the man again. I had been told that he was about fifty years of age, but he looked about ten or fifteen years younger. I noticed that he did not say much except to reply sharply to suggestions and arguments.