"What are you doing? What are you doing? I was only joking."
Knowing well that he was not joking, I resolved to steal the money to get rid of him. In the morning when I was brushing the master's clothes, money jingled in his trousers' pockets, and sometimes it fell out and rolled on the floor. Once some rolled into a crack in the boards under the staircase. I forgot to say anything about this, and remembered it only several days afterward when I found two greven between the boards. When I gave it back to the master his wife said to him:
"There, you see! You ought to count your money when you leave it in your pockets."
But my master, smiling at me, said:
"He would not steal, I know."
Now, having made up my mind to steal, I remembered these words and his trusting smile, and felt how hard it would be for me to rob him. Several times I took silver out of the pockets and counted it, but I could not take it. For three days I tormented myself about this, and suddenly the whole affair settled itself quickly and simply. The master asked me unexpectedly:
"What is the matter with you, Pyeshkov? You have become dull lately. Are n't you well, or what?"
I frankly told him all my troubles. He frowned.
"Now you see what books lead to! From them, in some way or another, trouble always comes."
He gave me half a ruble and admonished me sternly: