“Yes, two weeks.”
“Is your father out of work again?”
“Yes, he is out of work naow.”
“Naow!” Tikhon Ilitch mimicked him. “A wooden-headed village! And a revolutionary to boot! You’re trying to play the wolf, but your dog’s tail betrays you.”
“I rather think you come from the same litter,” Deniska said to himself, with a faint grin, keeping his head down.
“That means, the Grey Man is sitting at home smoking?”
“He’s a worthless fellow!” said Deniska with conviction.
Tikhon Ilitch rapped him on the head with his knuckles. “You might, at least, not exhibit your stupidity! Who speaks of his father like that?”
“He ought to be called an old dog, not a daddy,” replied Deniska calmly. “If he’s a father—then let him provide food. But he has fed me heartily, hasn’t he?”
But Tikhon Ilitch was not listening to him. He chose a suitable moment for beginning a business-like talk. And, paying no heed to him, he interrupted: “Well, you’ve turned out an empty-headed babbler. Has Yakoff sold the mare?”