"I said—I am just going—going home—home again—so I wish—wish you—a good year!"
"Ha, a good year? A good year to you also! Wait, have a little brandy, ha?"
Feivke shut his eyes. It made him feel bad to have the lamp burning so brightly and the old man talking so loud. Why need he speak in such a high, rasping voice that it went through one's head like a saw?
"Ha? Is it your little boy who scratched my Aarontche's face? Ha? A rascal is he? Beat him well! There, give him a little brandy, too—and a bit of cake! He fasted too, ha? But he can't recite the prayers? Fie! You ought to be beaten! Ha? Are you going home? Go in health! Ha? Your wife has just been confined?—Perhaps you need some money for the holidays? Ha? What do you say?"
Mattes and Feivke started to walk home. Mattes gave a look at the clear sky, where the young half-moon had floated into view. "Mother will be expecting us," he said, and began to walk quickly. Feivke could hardly drag his feet.
On the tall bridge they were met by a cool breeze blowing from the water. Once across the bridge, Mattes again quickened his pace. Presently he stopped to look around—no Feivke! He turned back and saw Feivke sitting in the middle of the road. The child was huddled up in a silent, shivering heap. His teeth chattered with cold.
"Feivke, what is the matter? Why are you sitting down? Come along home!"
"I won't"—Feivke clattered out with his teeth—"I c-a-n-'t—"
"Did they hit you so hard, Feivke?"
Feivke was silent. Then he stretched himself out on the ground, his hands and feet quivering.