he had a soul of flame. Once my papa scored my back with the birch-rod, and when Vick saw it he rushed off to our hut, and there was a scene, my brother! He was all pale and trembling, clenched his fists, and went after my father into his bedroom 'How dare you do it?' he asked. Papa said: 'But I'm his father!' 'Father, eh? Very well, father! I cannot cope with you single-handed, but your back shall be the same as Efimka's.' He burst into tears after these words, and ran away. And what do you say to this, my father--he was as good as his word. Evidently he said something to the manor-house servants about it. For one day my father came home groaning, and began to take off his shirt, but it was sticking to his back! My father was very angry with me that time. 'I've suffered all through you,' he said, 'you're a sneak, the squire's sneak.' And he gave me a sound hiding. But he was wrong about my being the squire's sneak I was never that, he might have let it alone." [1] Equivalent to "beer and skittles." [2] A pood = 40 lb. "No, you were never that, Efim!" said the prisoner with conviction, and he trembled all over, "that's plain, you could not become a lickspittle," he added hastily. "Ah, he was a one!" exclaimed Efimushka, "and I loved him. Ah, Vick, Vick! Such a talented lad, too. Everyone loved him, it was not only I. He spoke several languages ... I don't remember what they were. It's thirty years ago. Ah! Lord, Lord! Where is he now? Well, if he be alive, he is either in high places ... or else he's in hot water. Life is a strange distracting thing! It seethes and seethes, and makes a pretty brew of the best of us! And folks, vanish away; it is pitiful, to the last gasp it is pitiful!" Efimushka sighed heavily, and his head sank upon his breast. For a moment there was silence. "And are you sorry for _me_?" asked the prisoner merrily. There was no doubt about his merry way of asking, his whole face was lit up by a good and kindly smile. "You're a rum 'un!" exclaimed Efimushka; "one cannot but pity you of course! What are you, if you come to think of it? Wandering about as you do, it is plain that you have nothing of your own in the earth--not a corner, not a chip that you can call your own. Maybe, too, you carry about with you some great sin--who knows what you are? In a word, you're a miserable creature." "So it is," answered the prisoner. And again they were silent. The sun had already set, and the shadows were growing thicker. In the air there was a fresh smell of earth and flowers and sylvan humidity. For a long time they sat there in silence. "However nice it may be to stay here we must still be going. We have some eight versts before us. Come now, my father, let us be going!" "Let us sit a little longer," begged "the father." "Well, I don't care, I love to be about the woods at night myself. But when shall we get to the district magistrate? He will blow me up, it is late." "Rubbish, he won't blow you up."