“You’re taking him, too?”
“Yes.”
“Ah! if it were only Zhutchka!”
“That’s impossible. Zhutchka’s non‐existent. Zhutchka is lost in the mists of obscurity.”
“Ah! couldn’t we do this?” Smurov suddenly stood still. “You see Ilusha says that Zhutchka was a shaggy, grayish, smoky‐looking dog like Perezvon. Couldn’t you tell him this is Zhutchka, and he might believe you?”
“Boy, shun a lie, that’s one thing; even with a good object—that’s another. Above all, I hope you’ve not told them anything about my coming.”
“Heaven forbid! I know what I am about. But you won’t comfort him with Perezvon,” said Smurov, with a sigh. “You know his father, the captain, ‘the wisp of tow,’ told us that he was going to bring him a real mastiff pup, with a black nose, to‐day. He thinks that would comfort Ilusha; but I doubt it.”
“And how is Ilusha?”
“Ah, he is bad, very bad! I believe he’s in consumption: he is quite conscious, but his breathing! His breathing’s gone wrong. The other day he asked to have his boots on to be led round the room. He tried to walk, but he couldn’t stand. ‘Ah, I told you before, father,’ he said, ‘that those boots were no good. I could never walk properly in them.’ He fancied it was his boots that made him stagger, but it was simply weakness, really. He won’t live another week. Herzenstube is looking after him. Now they are rich again—they’ve got heaps of money.”
“They are rogues.”