He was over forty, small, bow-legged, with a pendulous paunch. When he laughed he looked at me with beaming eyes, and it was terribly strange to me to see that they were kind and merry. He could not fight, because his arms were shorter than mine, and after two or three turns he let me go, leaned his back against the gate, and said, apparently in great surprise:
"All right; you wait, clever!"
These fights bored me, and one day I said to him: "Listen, fool! Why don't you let me alone?"
"Why do you fight, then?" he asked reproachfully. I asked him in turn why he had maltreated the girl. "What did it matter to you? Are you sorry for her?"
"Of course I am!"
He was silent, rubbing his lips, and then asked:
"And would you be sorry for a cat?"
"Yes, I should."
Then he said:
"You are a fool, rascal! Wait; I'll show you something."