Foma went away, leaving Yozhov singing at the top of his voice:
“Beat the drum and fear not.”
“Drum? You are a drum yourself;” thought Foma, with irritation, as he slowly came out on the street.
At the Mayakins he was met by Luba. Agitated and animated, she suddenly appeared before him, speaking quickly:
“You? My God! How pale you are! How thin you’ve grown! It seems you have been leading a fine life.”
Then her face became distorted with alarm and she exclaimed almost in a whisper:
“Ah, Foma. You don’t know. Do you hear? Someone is ringing the bell. Perhaps it is he.”
And she rushed out of the room, leaving behind her in the air the rustle of her silk gown, and the astonished Foma, who had not even had a chance to ask her where her father was. Yakov Tarasovich was at home. Attired in his holiday clothes, in a long frock coat with medals on his breast, he stood on the threshold with his hands outstretched, clutching at the door posts. His green little eyes examined Foma, and, feeling their look upon him, Foma raised his head and met them.
“How do you do, my fine gentleman?” said the old man, shaking his head reproachfully. “Where has it pleased you to come from, may I ask? Who has sucked off that fat of yours? Or is it true that a pig looks for a puddle, and Foma for a place which is worse?”
“Have you no other words for me?” asked Foma, sternly, looking straight into the old man’s face. And suddenly he noticed that his godfather shuddered, his legs trembled, his eyes began to blink repeatedly, and his hands clutched the door posts with an effort. Foma advanced toward him, presuming that the old man was feeling ill, but Yakov Tarasovich said in a dull and angry voice: