"Petrucha is ill. He is afraid of death."
But Ardalon cried:
"I am ill, too; my heart is out of order."
On holidays I often wandered out of the town to "Millioni Street," where the dockers lived, and saw how quickly Ardalon had settled down among those uncouth ruffians. Only a year ago, happy and serious-minded, Ardalon had now become as noisy as any of them. He had acquired their curious, shambling walk, looked at people defiantly, as if he were inviting every one to fight with him, and was always boasting:
"You see how I am received; I am like a chieftain here!"
Never grudging the money he had earned, he liberally treated the dockers, and in fights he always took the part of the weakest. He often cried:
"That's not fair, children! You've got to fight fair!"
And so they called him "Fairplay," which delighted him.
I ardently studied these people, closely packed in that old and dirty sack of a street. All of them were people who had cut themselves off from ordinary life, but they seemed to have created a life of their own, independent of any master, and gay. Careless, audacious, they reminded me of grandfather's stories about the bargemen who so easily transformed themselves into brigands or hermits. When there was no work, they were not squeamish about committing small thefts from the barges and steamers, but that did not trouble me, for I saw that life was sewn with theft, like an old coat with gray threads. At the same time I saw that these people never worked with enthusiasm, unsparing of their energies, as happened in cases of urgency, such as fires, or the breaking of the ice. And, as a rule, they lived more of a holiday life than any other people.
But Osip, having noticed my friendship with Ardalon, warned me in a fatherly way: