Withered and light, grandfather rose from the floor, sat beside me, deftly snatched the cigarette from me, threw it out of the window, and said in a tone of fear:
"You mad fool! Don't you understand that God will punish you for this for the rest of your life? Mother,"—he turned to grandmother,—"did you see that? He knocked me down—he! Knocked me down! Ask him!"
She did not wait to ask. She simply came over to me, seized me by the hair, and beat me, saying:
"And for that—take this—and this!"
I was not hurt, but I felt deeply insulted, especially by grandfather's laughter. He jumped on a chair, slapped his legs with his hands, and croaked through his laughter:
"Th-a-t's right! Tha-a-t's right!"
I tore myself away, and ran out to the shed, where I lay in a corner crushed, desolate, listening to the singing of the samovar.
Then grandmother came to me, bent over me, and whispered hardly audibly:
"You must forgive me, for I purposely did not hurt you. I could not do otherwise than I did, for grandfather is an old man. He has to be treated with care. He has fractured some of his small bones, and, besides, sorrow has eaten into his heart. You must never do him any harm. You are not a little boy now. You must remember that. You must, Olesha! He is like a child, and nothing more."
Her words laved me like warm water. That friendly whisper made me feel ashamed of myself, and, light-hearted, I embraced her warmly. We kissed.