“If you thrust yourself into their hands willingly you can go to the devil! I am not your friend. They’ll catch you and bring you to your father--he wouldn’t do anything to you, while I would get such a spanking that all my bones would be skinned.” “Coward!” Foma persisted, stubbornly. And it came to pass one day that Foma was caught by the second captain, Chumakov, a thin little old man. Noiselessly approaching the boy, who was hiding away in his bosom the stolen apples, the old man seized him by the shoulders and cried in a threatening voice: “Now I have you, little rogue! Aha!” Foma was then about fifteen years old, and he cleverly slipped out of the old man’s hands. Yet he did not run from him, but, knitting his brow and clenching his fist, he said threateningly: “You dare to touch me!” “I wouldn’t touch you. I’ll just turn you over to the police! Whose son are you?” Foma did not expect this, and all his boldness and spitefulness suddenly left him. The trip to the police station seemed to him something which his father would never forgive him. He shuddered and said confusedly: “Gordyeeff.” “Ignat Gordyeeff’s?” “Yes.” Now the second captain was taken aback. He straightened himself, expanded his chest and for some reason or other cleared his throat impressively. Then his shoulders sank and he said to the boy in a fatherly tone: “It’s a shame! The son of such a well-known and respected man! It is unbecoming your position. You may go. But should this happen again! Hm! I should be compelled to notify your father, to whom, by the way, I have the honour of presenting my respects.” Foma watched the play of the old man’s physiognomy and understood that he was afraid of his father. Like a young wolf, he looked askance at Chumakov; while the old man, with comical seriousness, twisted his gray moustache, hesitating before the boy, who did not go away, notwithstanding the given permission. “You may go,” repeated the old man, pointing at the road leading to his house. “And how about the police?” asked Foma, sternly, and was immediately frightened at the possible answer. “I was but jesting,” smiled the old man. “I just wanted to frighten you.” “You are afraid of my father yourself,” said Foma, and, turning his back to the old man, walked off into the depth of the garden. “I am afraid? Ah! Very well!” exclaimed Chumakov after him, and Foma knew by the sound of his voice that he had offended the old man. He felt sad and ashamed; he passed the afternoon in walking, and, coming home, he was met by his father’s stern question: “Foma! Did you go to Chumakov’s garden?” “Yes, I did,” said the boy, calmly, looking into his father’s eyes. Evidently Ignat did not expect such an answer and he was silent for awhile, stroking his beard. “Fool! Why did you do it? Have you not enough of your own apples?” Foma cast down his eyes and was silent, standing before his father.