“Ah, where’s the hurry! Let me tell you. When he banged into me, the bullet did not break the bone but remained here. And I say: ‘You’ve killed me, brother. Eh! What have you done to me? I won’t let you off! You’ll have to stand me a pailful!’”
“Well, but did it hurt?” Olénin asked again, scarcely listening to the tale.
“Let me finish. He stood a pailful, and we drank it, but the blood went on flowing. The whole room was drenched and covered with blood. Grandad Burlák, he says, ‘The lad will give up the ghost. Stand a bottle of the sweet sort, or we shall have you taken up!’ They bought more drink, and boozed and boozed—”
“Yes, but did it hurt you much?” Olénin asked once more.
“Hurt, indeed! Don’t interrupt: I don’t like it. Let me finish. We boozed and boozed till morning, and I fell asleep on the top of the oven, drunk. When I woke in the morning I could not unbend myself anyhow—”
“Was it very painful?” repeated Olénin, thinking that now he would at last get an answer to his question.
“Did I tell you it was painful? I did not say it was painful, but I could not bend and could not walk.”
“And then it healed up?” said Olénin, not even laughing, so heavy was his heart.
“It healed up, but the bullet is still there. Just feel it!” And lifting his shirt he showed his powerful back, where just near the bone a bullet could be felt and rolled about.
“Feel how it rolls,” he said, evidently amusing himself with the bullet as with a toy. “There now, it has rolled to the back.”