"In so little time I've not been able to save any," replied Iakov.
"Then you don't want to stay here any longer, my lad, go back to the village."
Iakov smiled.
"Why these grimaces?" cried Vassili threateningly, and impatient at his son's coolness. "Your father's advising you and you mock him. You're in too much of a hurry to play the independent. You want to be put in the traces again."
Iakov poured out some more brandy and drank it. These coarse reproaches offended him, but he mastered himself, not wanting to arouse his father's anger.
Seeing that his son had drunk again, alone, without filling his glass, made Vassili more angry than ever.
"Your father says to you, 'Go home,' and you laugh at him. Very well, I'll speak differently. You'll get your pay Saturday and trot—home to the village—do you understand?"
"I won't go," said Iakov, firmly.
"What!" cried Vassili, and leaning his two hands on the edge of the table he rose to his feet. "Have I spoken, yes or no? You dog, barking at your father! Do you forget that I can do what I please with you?"
His mouth trembled with passion, his face was convulsed, and two swollen veins stood out on his temples.