I told him, and he shook his round head, which was closely covered with gray hair, and said in a shocked voice:
"Rag-picking! Why, that is worse than begging or stealing!"
I informed him, not without pride:
"But I stole as well."
At this he laid his hands on his desk, looking just like a cat with her paws up, and fixed his eyes on my face with a terrified expression as he whispered:
"Wha—a—t? How did you steal?"
I explained how and what I had stolen.
"Well, well, I look upon that as nothing but a prank. But if you rob me of boots or money, I will have you put in prison, and kept there for the rest of your life."
He said this quite calmly, and I was frightened, and did not like him any more.
Besides the master, there were serving in the shop my cousin, Sascha Jaakov, and the senior assistant, a competent, unctuous person with a red face. Sascha now wore a brown frock-coat, a false shirt-front, a cravat, and long trousers, and was too proud to take any notice of me.