"Who's there?"
A match cracked against the wall. Then there was a little spurt of flame, and then—great heaven!—then were to be heard curses, blows, the crying of a child, appeals, "Oh, for God's sake!" barking of dogs, people running with lights before the windows, uproar in the whole house.
Two days later poor Janko stood before the magistrates. Should he be prosecuted as a thief? Of course.
The justice and the landlord looked at the culprit as he stood in the dock, his finger in his mouth, with staring, terrified eyes, small, emaciated, dirty, beaten, unable to tell why or wherefore he found himself there, or what they were about to do to him. How, thought the justice, could anyone try a wretched little object like that, only ten years of age, and barely able to stand on its legs? Was he to be sent to prison, or what? One must not be too severe with children. Would it not be well if a watchman took him and gave him a few strokes with a cane, so that he might not steal a second time, and so end the matter?
"Just so. A very good idea!"
Stach, the watchman, was called.
"Take him, and give him a caning as a warning."
Stach nodded his stupid, bull head, took Janko under his arm like a kitten, and carried him off to the barn.
"HE TOOK JANKO UNDER HIS ARM LIKE A KITTEN."