When the teacher, a bald-headed man, whose lower lip hung down, called out: “Smolin, African!” the red-headed boy arose slowly, walked up to the teacher, calmly stared into his face, and, having listened to the problem, carefully began to make big round figures on the blackboard with chalk. “Good enough!” said the teacher. “Yozhov, Nicolai. Proceed!” One of Foma’s neighbours, a fidgety little boy with black little mouse-eyes, jumped up from his seat and passed through the aisle, striking against everything and turning his head on all sides. At the blackboard he seized the chalk, and, standing up on the toes of his boots, noisily began to mark the board with the chalk, creaking and filling with chalk dust, dashing off small, illegible marks. “Not so loud!” said the teacher, wrinkling his yellow face and contracting his fatigued eyes. Yozhov spoke quickly and in a ringing voice: “Now we know that the first peddler made 17k. profit.” “Enough! Gordyeeff! Tell me what must we do in order to find out how much the second peddler gained?” Watching the conduct of the boys, so unlike each other, Foma was thus taken unawares by the question and he kept quiet. “Don’t you know? How? Explain it to him, Smolin.” Having carefully wiped his fingers, which had been soiled with chalk, Smolin put the rag away, and, without looking at Foma, finished the problem and again began to wipe his hands, while Yozhov, smiling and skipping along as he walked, returned to his seat. “Eh, you!” he whispered, seating himself beside Foma, incidentally striking his side with his fist. “Why don’t you know it? What was the profit altogether? Thirty kopecks. And there were two peddlers. One of them got 17. Well, how much did the other one get?” “I know,” replied Foma, in a whisper, feeling confused and examining the face of Smolin, who was sedately returning to his seat. He didn’t like that round, freckled face, with the blue eyes, which were loaded with fat. And Yozhov pinched his leg and asked: “Whose son are you? The Frantic’s?” “Yes.” “So. Do you wish me to prompt you always?” “Yes.” “And what will you give me for it?” Foma thought awhile and asked: “And do you know it all yourself?” “I? I am the best pupil. You’ll see for yourself.” “Hey, there! Yozhov, you are talking again?” cried the teacher, faintly. Yozhov jumped to his feet and said boldly: “It’s not I, Ivan Andreyich--it’s Gordyeeff.” “Both of them were whispering,” announced Smolin, serenely. Wrinkling his face mournfully and moving his big lip comically, the teacher reprimanded them all, but his words did not prevent Yozhov from whispering immediately: “Very well, Smolin! I’ll remember you for telling.” “Well, why do you blame it all on the new boy?” asked Smolin, in a low voice, without even turning his head to them. “All right, all right,” hissed Yozhov.