"Have you come with a confession? Have you killed a man? Have you committed arson? Have you robbed the post?" asked Avinovitsky angrily as he admitted Peredonov into the drawing-room. "Or have you been the victim of a crime yourself, which is more possible in our town. Ours is a filthy town and its police is even worse. I'm astonished that you don't find dead bodies every morning lying about the place. Well, sit down. What is your business? Are you the criminal or the victim?" "No," said Peredonov, "I haven't done anything of the kind. Now there's the Head-Master who'd undoubtedly like to settle my hash for me, but I haven't any such thing in mind." "So you haven't come with a confession?" asked Avinovitsky. "No, I can't say that I have," mumbled Peredonov timidly. "Well, if that's the case," said the District Attorney with savage emphasis, "then let me offer you something." He picked up a small handbell from the table and rang it. No one came. Avinovitsky took the handbell in both hands, raised a furious racket, then threw the bell on the floor, stamped his feet and shouted in a savage voice: "Malanya! Malanya! Devils! Beasts! Demons!" Unhurried footsteps were heard and a schoolboy came in, Avinovitsky's son, a stubby, black-haired boy of about thirteen years of age with an air of confidence and self-assurance. He greeted Peredonov, picked up the bell, put in on the table and said quietly: "Malanya is in the vegetable garden." Avinovitsky recovered his calm for a moment, and looking at his son with a tenderness that did not altogether become his overgrown and angry face, he said: "Now run along, sonny, and tell her to bring us something to drink and some _zakouska_." The boy leisurely walked out of the room. His father looked after him with a pleased and proud smile. But while the boy was still on the threshold Avinovitsky suddenly frowned savagely and shouted in his terrible voice which made Peredonov tremble: "Look alive!" The schoolboy began to run and they could hear how impetuously he slammed the doors. Avinovitsky, smiling with his heavy red lips, again renewed his angry-sounding conversation: "My heir--not bad, eh? What's he going to turn out like? What do you say? He may become a fool, but a knave, a coward or a rag--never!" "Well--a----" mumbled Peredonov. "People are trivial nowadays--they're a parody of the human race!" roared Avinovitsky. "They consider health a trifle. Some German invented under-waistcoats. Now I would have sent that German to hard labour. Imagine my Vladimir suddenly in an under-waistcoat! Why all summer he walked about in the village without once putting his boots on, and then think of him in an under-waistcoat! Why, he even gets out of his bath and runs naked in a frost and rolls in the snow--think of him in an under-waistcoat. A hundred lashes for the accursed German!" Avinovitsky passed from the German who invented under-waistcoats to other criminals.