and pitiless hand of reality
was already at work tearing the beautiful, fine web of the wonderful,
through which the boy had looked at everything about him. The incident
with the machinist and the pilot directed his attention to his
surroundings; Foma's eyes became more sharp-sighted. A conscious
searchfulness appeared in them and in his questions to his father rang a
yearning to understand which threads and springs were managing the deeds
of men.

One day a scene took place before him: the sailors were carrying wood,
and one of them, the young, curly-haired and gay Yefim, passing the deck
of the ship with hand-barrows, said loudly and angrily:

"No, he has no conscience whatever! There was no agreement that I should
carry wood. A sailor--well, one's business is clear--but to carry wood
into the bargain--thank you! That means for me to take off the skin I
have not sold. He is without conscience! He thinks it is clever to sap
the life out of us."

The boy heard this grumbling and knew that it was concerning his father.
He also noticed that although Yefim was grumbling, he carried more wood
on his stretcher than the others, and walked faster than the others.
None of the sailors replied to Yefim's grumbling, and even the one who
worked with him was silent, only now and then protesting against the
earnestness with which Yefim piled up the wood on the stretchers.

"Enough!" he would say, morosely, "you are not loading a horse, are
you?"

"And you had better keep quiet. You were put to the cart--cart it and
don't kick--and should your blood be sucked--keep quiet again. What can
you say?"

Suddenly Ignat appeared, walked up to the sailor and, stopping in front
of him, asked sternly:

"What were you talking about?"

"I am talking--I know," replied Yefim, hesitating. "There was no
agreement--that I must say nothing."

"And who is going to suck blood?" asked Ignat, stroking his beard.

The sailor understood that he had been caught unawares, and seeing no
way out of it, he let the log of wood fall from his hands, rubbed his
palms against his pants, and, facing Ignat squarely, said rather boldly:

"And am I not right? Don't you suck it?"

"I?"

"You."

Foma saw that his father swung his hand. A loud blow resounded, and the
sailor fell heavily on the wood. He arose immediately and worked on in
silence. Blood was trickling from his bruised face on to the white bark
of the birch wood; he wiped the blood off his face