Julian Mastakovich, all flushed with vexation, venom in his look, began to threaten the red-haired boy.  The red-haired boy retreated farther and farther until there was no place left for him to retreat to, and he did not know where to turn in his fright.

“Get out of here!  What are you doing here?  Get out, I say, you good-for-nothing!  Stealing fruit, are you?  Oh, so, stealing fruit!  Get out, you freckle face, go to your likes!”

The frightened child, as a last desperate resort, crawled quickly under the table.  His persecutor, completely infuriated, pulled out his large linen handkerchief and used it as a lash to drive the boy out of his position.

Here I must remark that Julian Mastakovich was a somewhat corpulent man, heavy, well-fed, puffy-cheeked, with a paunch and ankles as round as nuts.  He perspired and puffed and panted.  So strong was his dislike (or was it jealousy?) of the child that he actually began to carry on like a madman.

I laughed heartily.  Julian Mastakovich turned.  He was utterly confused and for a moment, apparently, quite oblivious of his immense importance.  At that moment our host appeared in the doorway opposite.  The boy crawled out from under the table and wiped his knees and elbows.  Julian Mastakovich hastened to carry his handkerchief, which he had been dangling by the corner, to his nose.  Our host looked at the three of us rather suspiciously.  But, like a man who knows the world and can readily adjust himself, he seized upon the opportunity to lay hold of his very valuable guest and get what he wanted out of him.

“Here’s the boy I was talking to you about,” he said, indicating the red-haired child.  “I took the liberty of presuming on your goodness in his behalf.”

“Oh,” replied Julian Mastakovich, still not quite master of himself.

“He’s my governess’s son,” our host continued in a beseeching tone.  “She’s a poor creature, the widow of an honest official.  That’s why, if it were possible for you—­”

“Impossible, impossible!” Julian Mastakovich cried hastily.  “You must excuse me, Philip Alexeyevich, I really cannot.  I’ve made inquiries.  There are no vacancies, and there is a waiting list of ten who have a greater right—­I’m sorry.”

“Too bad,” said our host.  “He’s a quiet, unobtrusive child.”

“A very naughty little rascal, I should say,” said Julian Mastakovich, wryly.  “Go away, boy.  Why are you here still?  Be off with you to the other children.”

Unable to control himself, he gave me a sidelong glance.  Nor could I control myself.  I laughed straight in his face.  He turned away and asked our host, in tones quite audible to me, who that odd young fellow was.  They whispered to each other and left the room, disregarding me.