“Oh, I didn’t mean anything. From somebody’s pocket, you know. I don’t mean government money, every one steals that, and no doubt you do, too”…
“You go to the devil.”
“I’m talking of other peoples’ money. Stealing straight out of a pocket? Out of a purse, eh?”
“I stole twenty kopecks from my mother when I was nine years old. I took it off the table on the sly, and held it tight in my hand.”
“Well, and what happened?”
“Oh, nothing. I kept it three days, then I felt ashamed, confessed and gave it back.”
“And what then?”
“Naturally I was whipped. But why do you ask? Have you stolen something?”
“I have,” said Mitya, winking slyly.
“What have you stolen?” inquired Pyotr Ilyitch curiously
“I stole twenty kopecks from my mother when I was nine years old, and gave it back three days after.”
As he said this, Mitya suddenly got up.
“Dmitri Fyodorovitch, won’t you come now?” called Andrey from the door of the shop.
“Are you ready? We’ll come!” Mitya started. “A few more last words and…Andrey, a glass of vodka at starting. Give him some brandy, as well! That box” (the one with the pistols) “put under my seat. Good- bye, Pyotr Ilyitch, don’t remember evil against me.”
“But you’re coming back to-morrow?”
“Of course.”
“Will you settle the little bill now?” cried the clerk, springing forward.
“Oh yes, the bill. Of course.”
He pulled the bundle of notes out of his pocket again, picked out three hundred roubles, threw them on the counter, and ran hurriedly out of the shop. Every one followed him out, bowing and wishing him good luck. Andrey, coughing from the brandy he had just swallowed, jumped up on the box. But Mitya was only just taking his seat when suddenly, to his surprise, he saw Fenya before him. She ran up panting, clasped her hands before him with a cry, and plumped down at his feet.
“Dmitri Fyodorovitch, dear good Dmitri Fyodorovitch, don’t harm my mistress. And it was I told you all about it.…And don’t murder him, he came first, he’s hers! He’ll marry Agrafena Alexandrovna now. That’s why he’s come back from Siberia. Dmitri Fyodorovitch, dear, don’t take a fellow creature’s life!”
“Tut—tut—tut! That’s it, is it? So you’re off there to make trouble!” muttered Pyotr Ilyitch. “Now, it’s all clear, as clear as daylight. Dmitri Fyodorovitch, give me your pistols at once if you mean to behave like a man,” he shouted aloud to Mitya. “Do you hear, Dmitri?”
“The pistols? Wait a bit, brother, I’ll throw them into the pool on the road,” answered Mitya. “Fenya, get up, don’t kneel to me. Mitya won’t hurt any one, the silly fool won’t hurt any one again. But I say, Fenya,” he shouted, after having taken his seat. “I hurt you just now, so forgive me and have pity on me,