Fedia was about eleven. His little face was white and transparent, and his eyes were critical.
There was another boy, Mark Lobof, a pupil of the last class. He was a thin, quick-tempered, sharp fellow, very impudent and a bully. He would whistle low, and pinch, beat and push the children. Once I saw him persecuting a small, quiet boy until the latter burst into tears.
"Mark," I said to him, "suppose he fought you back."
Mark looked at me, laughed and answered:
"He won't fight. He is gentle and good."
"Then why do you hurt him?"
"Just so," he answered.
He whistled and then added: "Because he is gentle."
"Well, suppose he is?" I asked.
"What are the gentle ones made for?"