Vasily adjusted himself slowly, rose from the lounge, took Yozhov’s yellow, thin little hand in his big, swarthy paw and pressed it.
“Goodbye!”
Then he nodded toward Foma and went through the door sideways.
“Have you seen?” Yozhov asked Foma, pointing his hand at the door, behind which the heavy footsteps still resounded.
“What sort of a man is he?”
“Assistant machinist, Vaska Krasnoshchokov. Here, take an example from him: At the age of fifteen he began to study, to read and write, and at twenty-eight he has read the devil knows how many good books, and has mastered two languages to perfection. Now he’s going abroad.”
“What for?” inquired Foma.
“To study. To see how people live there, while you languish here—what for?”
“He spoke sensibly of the fools,” said Foma, thoughtfully.
“I don’t know, for I am not a fool.”