“Exciting?” asked the father, smiling.
“Yes.”
“Mm, perhaps it is so. But, nevertheless, Foma, look out—drop this, or I shall deal with you severely.”
“I’ll never climb anywhere again,” said the boy with confidence.
“And that you take all the blame on yourself—that is good. What will become of you in the future, only God knows, but meanwhile—it is pretty good. It is not a trifle if a man is willing to pay for his deeds with his own skin. Someone else in your place would have blamed his friends, while you say: ‘I did it myself.’ That’s the proper way, Foma. You commit the sin, but you also account for it. Didn’t Chumakov strike you?” asked Ignat, pausing as he spoke.
“I would have struck him back,” declared Foma, calmly.
“Mm,” roared his father, significantly.
“I told him that he was afraid of you. That is why he complained. Otherwise he was not going to say anything to you about it.”
“Is that so?”
“‘By God! Present my respects to your father,’ he said.”