“I belong to my master Doubrovsky.”
Kirila Petrovitch’s face grew dark.
“It seems, then, that you do not recognize me as your master. Very well. What were you doing in my garden?”
“I was stealing raspberries.”
“Ah, ah! the servant is like his master. As the pope is, so is his parish. And do my raspberries grow upon oak trees? Have you ever heard so?”
The boy did not reply.
“Papa, make him give up the ring,” said Sasha.
“Silence, Alexander!” replied Kirila Petrovitch; “don’t forget that I intend to settle with you presently. Go to your room. And you, squint-eyes, you seem to me to be a knowing sort of lad; if you confess everything to me, I will not whip you, but will give you a five copeck piece to buy nuts with. Give up the ring and go.”
The boy opened his fist and showed that there was nothing in his hand.
“If you don’t, I shall do something to you that you little expect. Now!”