The first thing of which Shura was conscious when he awoke one morning was that something was tearing on his person. He felt uncomfortable. As he turned on his side he was even more clearly aware of the damage that his shirt had suffered. There was a large gap under the armpits, and presently he realized that it extended down to the very bottom.
Shura was sad. He remembered having told his mother only the day before about the condition of his shirt.
“Wear it another day, Shurochka,” she answered him.
Shura frowned and said rather sadly: “Mother, it won’t stand another day’s wear. To-morrow I shall be a ragamuffin.”
Without looking up from her work she grumbled.
“Let me have some peace. I have already promised you a change to-morrow evening. If you’d only be less mischievous your clothes would last longer. You’d wear out iron.”
Shura, who was a quiet lad, growled back in reply:
“One simply couldn’t be less mischievous than I. Only sometimes you can’t help it, and then in a reasonable sort of way.”
His request went unheeded. And here was the consequence. His shirt was torn to its very hem. It was now good for nothing, all for want of a little foresight.
He jumped out of bed, and ran semi-nude into the next-room, where his mother was making ready to go out to bring back some paying homework. The thought of going to school in discomfort and of waiting till evening vexed him.