"God grant good luck!" mumbled the blacksmith.
Yevsey fell asleep, and awoke when his uncle lightly tapped him on his legs with the butt end of the whip.
"Look, Orphan."
To the sleepy eyes of the boy the city appeared like a huge field of buckwheat. Thick and varicolored, it stretched endlessly, with the golden church steeples standing out like yellow pimpinellas, and the dark bands of the streets looking like fences between the patches.
"Oh, how large!" said Yevsey. After another look, he asked his uncle cautiously, "Will you come to see me?"
"Certainly, whenever I come to the city. You will begin to make money, and I will ask you to give me some. 'Orphan,' I'll say, 'give your uncle about three rubles.'"
"I'll give you all my money."
"You mustn't give me all. You should give only as much as you won't be sorry to part with. To give less is shameful; to give more is unfair."
The city grew quickly and became more and more varied in coloring. It glittered green, red, and golden, reflecting the rays of the sun from the glass of the countless windows and from the gold of the church steeples. It seemed to make promises, kindling in the heart a confused curiosity, a dim expectation of something unusual. Kneeling in the wagon with his hand on his uncle's shoulder, Yevsey looked before him while the smith said:
"You live this way—do whatever is assigned to you, hold yourself aloof, beware of the bold men. One bold man out of ten succeeds, and nine go to pieces."