This roused Foma’s indignation. He looked full into the old man’s eyes and articulated with emphasis:
“And I am telling you that I don’t want to hear any more of that undeserved abuse of yours. Enough!”
“Mm! So-o! Pardon me.”
Yakov Tarasovich closed his eyes, chewed a little with his lips, and, turning aside from his godson, kept silent for awhile. The carriage turned into a narrow street, and, noticing from afar the roof of his house, Foma involuntarily moved forward. At the same time Mayakin asked him with a roguish and gentle smile:
“Foma! Tell me—on whom you have sharpened your teeth? Eh?”
“Why, are they sharp?” asked Foma, pleased with the manner in which Mayakin now regarded him.
“Pretty good. That’s good, dear. That’s very good! Your father and I were afraid lest you should be a laggard. Well, have you learned to drink vodka?”
“I drank it.”
“Rather too soon! Did you drink much of it?”
“Why much?”