tch is surprised. Putohin is the
only one who does not move. Though he is quick to notice anything
irregular or disorderly, this time he makes a pretence of hearing
and seeing nothing. That is suspicious.

"He's sold it for drink," Yegoritch declares.

Putohin says nothing, so it is the truth. Vassya is overcome with
horror. His greatcoat, his splendid greatcoat, made of his dead
mother's cloth dress, with a splendid calico lining, gone for drink
at the tavern! And with the greatcoat is gone too, of course, the
blue pencil that lay in the pocket, and the note-book with "_Nota
bene_" in gold letters on it! There's another pencil with india-rubber
stuck into the note-book, and, besides that, there are transfer
pictures lying in it.

Vassya would like to cry, but to cry is impossible. If his father,
who has a headache, heard crying he would shout, stamp with his
feet, and begin fighting, and after drinking he fights horribly.
Granny would stand up for Vassya, and his father would strike granny
too; it would end in Yegoritch getting mixed up in it too, clutching
at his father and falling on the floor with him. The two would roll
on the floor, struggling together and gasping with drunken animal
fury, and granny would cry, the children would scream, the neighbours
would send for the porter. No, better not cry.

Because he mustn't cry, or give vent to his indignation aloud,
Vassya moans, wrings his hands and moves his legs convulsively, or
biting his sleeve shakes it with his teeth as a dog does a hare.
His eyes are frantic, and his face is distorted with despair. Looking
at him, his granny all at once takes the shawl off her head, and
she too makes queer movements with her arms and legs in silence,
with her eyes fixed on a point in the distance. And at that moment
I believe there is a definite certainty in the minds of the boy and
the old woman that their life is ruined, that there is no
hope. . . .

Putohin hears no crying, but he can see it all from his room. When,
half an hour later, Vassya sets off to school, wrapped in his
grandmother's shawl, he goes out with a face I will not undertake
to describe, and walks after him. He longs to call the boy, to
comfort him, to beg his forgiveness, to promise him on his word of
honour, to call his dead mother to witness, but instead of words,
sobs break from him. It is a grey, cold morning. When he reaches
the town school Vassya untwists his granny's shawl, and goes into
the