Ilya shrugged his shoulders, and said nothing. "Wait, my boy. I'll give you something, just in case you forget me." The shopman strode slowly across to the boy, and looked in his face with round, malignant eyes. Ilya got up, and with a rapid movement took a long, thin knife from the counter, and said "Come on!" The shopman stood still, measuring with a fixed glance the strong sturdy figure, with long arms and the knife in one hand, then murmured scornfully: "Pooh, you convict's brat!" "Just come on, come on!" repeated the boy, and advanced a step. Everything whirled before his eyes, but in his breast he felt a great strength which urged him bravely forward. "Drop that knife!" said his master's voice. Ilya shuddered when he saw the red beard and livid face of his master, but did not move. "Put down that knife, I tell you," repeated the merchant quietly. Ilya, who felt as though he were moving through a dark cloud, put the knife down on the counter, gave a loud sob, and sat down again on the floor. He felt giddy. His head and his damaged ear pained him. A heavy weight that lay on his breast hindered his breathing, pressed on his heart, and rose up slowly in his throat, choking his speech. He heard his employer's voice as though he were far away. "Here is your salary due, Mishka." "But let me----" the shopman tried to explain. "Out you go, else I'll call the police." "All right, I'll go, but keep an eye on that young cub, I advise you. He goes at people with a knife--he, he! His dear father is in Siberia, a convict--he, he!" "Get out!" There was stillness again in the shop. Ilya had an unpleasant feeling, as though something were crawling over his face. He wiped off his tears with his hand, looked about him, and saw his master behind his desk, examining him with a sharp searching look. Ilya got up and went towards his place at the door, staggering uncertainly. "Stop! Hold on a minute," called out his master. "Would you really have put that knife in him?" "Yes, I would," answered the boy, quietly, but with assurance. "Oh, oh! What's your father in Siberia for? Murder?" "No. Setting fire to a house." "Good enough." Karp, the other shopman, came back from an errand at this moment. He sat down on a stool near the door, and looked out at the street. "Listen, Karpushka," began the master, with smile. "I've just sent Mishka packing." "It's your right, Kiril Ivanovitch." "Think! He robbed me." "Impossible!" cried Karp, softly, but evidently frightened, "Is that true? The villain!" The chief laughed behind his desk till he had to hold his sides and his red beard shook. "Ho! ho! ho!" he laughed. "Ah, Karpushka, you conjuror, modest soul!" Then he stopped laughing suddenly, gave a deep sigh, and said, sternly and thoughtfully, "Ah, men, men! All want to live, all want to eat, and every one better than his neighbour." He shook his head and was silent.