Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/cu31924026722367 Transcriber's note: Italicized words and phrases are presented by surrounding the text with _underscores_. THE SPY The Story of a Superfluous Man by MAXIM GORKY Authorized translation by Thomas Seltzer New York B. W. Huebsch 1908 Copyright, 1908 By B. W. Huebsch THE SPY CHAPTER I When Yevsey Klimkov was four years old, his father was shot dead by the forester; and when he was seven years old, his mother died. She died suddenly in the field at harvest time. And so strange was this that Yevsey was not even frightened by the sight of her dead body. Uncle Piotr, a blacksmith, put his hand on the boy's head, and said: "What are we going to do now?" Yevsey took a sidelong glance at the corner where his mother lay upon a bench, and answered in a low voice: "I don't know." The blacksmith wiped the sweat from his face with his shirtsleeve, and after a long silence gently shoved his nephew aside. "You're going to live with me," he said. "We'll send you to school, I suppose, so that you won't be in our way. Ah, you old man!" From that day the boy was called Old Man. The nickname suited him very well. He was too small for his age, his movements were sluggish, and his voice thin. A little bird-like nose stuck out sadly from a bony face, his round colorless eyes blinked timorously, his hair was sparse and grew in tufts. The impression he made was of a puny, shriveled-up little old fellow. The children in school laughed at him and beat him, his dull oldish look and his owl-like face somehow irritating the healthier and livelier among them. He held himself aloof, and lived alone, silently, always in the shade, or in some corner or hole. Without winking his round eyes he looked forth upon the people from his retirement, cautiously contracted like a snail in its shell. When his eyes grew tired, he closed them, and for a long time sat sightless, gently swaying his thin body. Yevsey endeavored to escape observation even in his uncle's home; but here it was difficult. He had to dine and sup in the company of the whole family, and when he sat at the table, Yakov, the uncle's youngest son, a lusty, red-faced youngster, tried every trick to tease him or make him laugh. He made faces, stuck out his tongue, kicked Yevsey's legs under the table, and pinched him. He never succeeded, however, in making the Old Man laugh, though he did succeed in producing quite the opposite result, for often Yevsey would start with pain, his yellow face would turn grey, his eyes open wide, and his spoon tremble in his hand. "What is it?" his uncle Piotr sometimes asked. "It's Yashka," the boy explained in an even voice, in which there was no note of complaint.