"Here is your salary due, Mishka."
"But let me——" the shopman tried to explain.
"Out you go, else I'll call the police."
"All right, I'll go, but keep an eye on that young cub, I advise you. He goes at people with a knife—he, he! His dear father is in Siberia, a convict—he, he!"
"Get out!"
There was stillness again in the shop. Ilya had an unpleasant feeling, as though something were crawling over his face. He wiped off his tears with his hand, looked about him, and saw his master behind his desk, examining him with a sharp searching look. Ilya got up and went towards his place at the door, staggering uncertainly.
"Stop! Hold on a minute," called out his master. "Would you really have put that knife in him?"
"Yes, I would," answered the boy, quietly, but with assurance.
"Oh, oh! What's your father in Siberia for? Murder?"
"No. Setting fire to a house."