“What? Didn’t I tell you?” asked the old man of Sergey, teasingly. “Ask me if you ever want to know anything, brother, for I know. Nothing less than a rouble.”
At that moment there broke out such an inhuman yowl that Arto involuntarily dropped the cap and leapt off with his tail between his legs, looked over his shoulders fearfully, and came and lay down at his master’s feet.
“I wa-a-a-nt him,” cried the curly-headed boy, stamping his feet. “Give him to me! I want him. The dog, I tell you! Trilly wa-ants the do-og!”
“Ah, God in heaven! Ah, Nikolai Apollonovitch! ... Little father, master!... Be calm, Trilly, I beseech you,” cried the voices of the people.
“The dog! Give me the dog; I want him! Scum, demons, fatheads!” cried the boy, fairly out of his mind.
“But, angel mine, don’t upset your nerves,” lisped the lady in the blue dressing-jacket. “You’d like to stroke the doggie? Very well, very well, my joy, in a minute you shall. Doctor, what do you think, might Trilly stroke this dog?”
“Generally speaking, I should not advise it,” said the doctor, waving his hands. “But if we had some reliable disinfectant as, for instance, boracic acid or a weak solution of carbolic, then ... generally ...”
“The do-og!”
“In a minute, my charmer, in a minute. So, doctor, you order that we wash the dog with boracic acid, and then.... Oh, Trilly, don’t get into such a state! Old man, bring up your dog, will you, if you please. Don’t be afraid, you will be paid for it. And, listen a moment—is the dog ill? I wish to ask, is the dog suffering from hydrophobia or skin disease?”
“Don’t want to stroke him, don’t want to,” roared Trilly, blowing out his mouth like a bladder. “Fat-heads! Demons! Give it to me altogether! I want to play with it.... For always.”