Now he would really work,—work honestly. Here God was helping him to become a man among men,—then why shouldn’t he do it? And, naturally, he wouldn’t be like those dogs, his former employers. He would know that a workingman was a human being, too, and would treat his men altogether differently. They would be to him like his own people, like brothers. Chashke really was a fool.
“Did you see in what a rage your Chashke left?” asked Chyenke, interrupting his thoughts.
“Why are you always saying ‘your’ Chashke?” he queried, with a smile.
“I know. You still run to her house.”
“Pah! Better come and sit down here, right beside me. So!”
He slapped his knee and stretched his arms out to her.
Chashke’s heart was heavy. So heavy, indeed, that she would gladly have wept. Her throat contracted with sorrow. She walked rapidly, and her mother could scarcely keep pace with her.
“Just mark my word,” gasped the old woman, running after her daughter, “in a few years Drabkin will be rich,—worth several thousand roubles. She has a smart head on her shoulders. If you had only half her brains I wouldn’t have to worry about you! Oh! Oh! Ah!...”
It was the old mother’s disappointment that spoke in her,—disappointment that nothing had come of the intimacy between Drabkin and her daughter.