"Why do you hunt him so?" asked my mother. "Let the child sit a minute."
I was in the attic. Deep, deep in a hole lay the beautiful knife. It lay there in silence.
"What are you doing in the attic?" called out my father. "You good-for-nothing! You street-boy! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!"
"I am looking for something," I answered. I nearly fell down with fright.
"Something? What is the something? What sort of a thing is that something?"
"A—a bo—ok. An—an old 'Ge—gemar—ra.'"
"What? A 'Gemarra'? In the attic? Ah, you scamp you! Come down at once. Come down. You'll get it from me. You street-boy! You dog-beater! You rascal! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!"
I was not so much afraid of my father's anger as that the pocket-knife might be found. Who could tell? Perhaps some one would go up to the attic to hang out clothes to dry, or to paint the rafters? The knife must be taken down from there, and hidden in a better place. I went about in fear and trembling. Every glance at my father told me that he knew, and that now, now he was going to talk to me of the guest's knife. I had a place for it—a grand place. I would bury it in the ground, in a hole near the wall. I would put some straw on the spot to mark it. The moment I came from "Cheder" I ran out into the yard. I took the knife carefully from my pocket, but had no time to look at it, when my father called out:
"Where are you at all? Why don't you go and say your prayers? You swine-herd you! You are a water-carrier! Tkeh-heh-heh!"
But whatever my father said to me, and as much as the teacher beat me, it was all rubbish to me when I came home, and had the pleasure of seeing my one and only dear friend—my little knife. The pleasure was, alas! mixed with pain, and embittered by fear—by great fear.