“No!” cried the old woman. “I’ll have him neither the one nor the other. The blacksmith by always going amidst fire and soot is so begrimed that he looks rather like a devil than a man. Would you make a monster of him? As for a tailor—I don’t deny that tailoring is a rare art, but sitting doubled up, in a little time brings on a consumption.”
“Then what would you make of him?” cried the old man.
“Make of him?” said she; “why a goldsmith or a painter, or something similar.”
“And do you know,” said the old man, “how much money one must lay down to have him bound either to a goldsmith or a painter?
Why he would swallow up all we have, or more.”
They disputed so long, that they almost came to blows. The old woman had already armed herself with the fire-pan. At last, however, they agreed to bind their son to the first master they should meet, whatever his trade might be. So the old man, taking with him the sum of ten roubles, which he destined for the binding his son out as an apprentice, set out leading Tim by the hand. It happened, that the first people he met were two born brothers, who maintained themselves by levying taxes on the highway, and besides being tax-gatherers were expert tailors, using their needles so adroitly, that with a stitch or two they could make for themselves a coat or mantle; in plain language, they were robbers.
The old man, after saluting them, said:
“Are you craftsmen?”
“Oh, yes! and very skilful ones,” replied the highwaymen.
“And what may be your trade?” inquired the old man.