"Why won't you come with us, Ivan Stepanovitch?" I heard the village _ataman_, the head man of our village, say to him in a slow, persuasive voice. "We need you to show our youths how to hunt tigers. They've got to learn. We lost five cows and a dozen sheep last year, and this one rascal alone can ruin us. We'll give you half the price of the skin." "I don't care for the company, thank you; I prefer to hunt tigers single-handed." He paused and added with a peculiar sarcasm, "I'm really not needed." Here he arose and left abruptly. For several minutes after his departure, no one spoke. Then I heard my father's voice: "Since he doesn't want to come, let him stay away. We're no children to need help. How many rifles can we count on for to-morrow?" There came a chorus of "I," "I'm with you," "Count on me," and then quite involuntarily, I found myself exclaiming loudly: "I'll go." To my surprise everybody found something amusing just then, for there was a resounding laugh. A man near the door faced me with, "Where is your rifle?" I looked straight into his eyes and answered earnestly, "Last year my uncle promised to give me one of his shotguns." Again there came a new and stronger explosion of laughter. What was the matter? Were they laughing at me? My uncle came to my rescue. "Brave boy," he said, patting me on the shoulder. "I'll take you if your father consents, and you shall have a rifle instead of a shotgun. We need some one to see to our horses." Then the meeting began to discuss plans. It was decided that about two hours after midnight all who were going were to meet outside of the village at the crossing of the road to Bear Valley. Only two dogs, wolf hounds owned by Laddeef, were to be taken. When I returned home, I said nothing to my mother of my share in the _skodka_, but when shortly after midnight I heard my father's heavy steps go out to feed the horses, I arose quietly and dressed, not forgetting my fur overcoat and cap and my warm felt boots. When my father returned, his beard white with frost and snow on his deerskin boots, he looked at me with a mingling of surprise and satisfaction and exclaimed: "You up! What's the matter?" "You seemed willing that I should go on the hunt," I stammered, fearful of a refusal at the last moment. "Seemed willing," my father repeated with a slight smile. Here my mother who was now up, broke in quite excitedly: "You are surely not going to be so crazy as to let Vanka go." That saved me. Father always disliked any interference, and now, in addition, mother's tone angered him. "Father," I begged, before he could speak, "mother thinks I'm a baby. She doesn't understand that I'm to be raised like a Cossack and not like a lamb. Uncle will take care of me." My father who was frowning deeply, seemed to be turning over something in his mind. At last, without looking at me, he said, "It'll do you good. If your uncle will take charge of you,--go."