“I do, sister.”
“Then if you love me, run there quickly and put this ring into the hollow, and make sure nobody sees you.”
With those words she tossed him the ring and closed the window.
The boy picked up the ring, set off running as fast as he could, and in three minutes reached the secret tree. There he stopped for breath, looked all around, and put the ring into the hollow. Having done his job successfully, he wanted to report at once to Marya Kirilovna, when suddenly a ragged boy, red-haired and squint-eyed, shot from behind the gazebo, dashed to the oak tree, and thrust his hand into the hollow. Sasha rushed at him quicker than a squirrel and caught hold of him with both hands.
“What are you doing here?” he said menacingly.
“None of your business!” the boy replied, trying to free himself.
“Leave that ring alone, you red-haired rat,” Sasha shouted, “or I’ll teach you what’s what.”
Instead of an answer, the boy punched him in the face with his fist, but Sasha did not let go and shouted at the top of his voice: “Thieves, thieves, help, help…”
The boy tried to break free of him. He was apparently a couple of years older than Sasha and much stronger, but Sasha was more nimble. They struggled for several minutes, and the red-haired boy finally won. He threw Sasha to the ground and took him by the throat.
But just then a strong hand seized his red and bristling hair, and the gardener Stepan lifted him a foot off the ground…
“Ah, you red-haired rascal,” the gardener said. “How dare you beat the young master…”
Sasha had time to jump up and brush himself off.
“You grabbed me under the arms, otherwise you’d never have thrown me down. Give me back the ring and get out of here.”
“Nohow,” the redhead replied and, suddenly twisting around, freed his bristles from Stepan’s hand. Then he broke into a run, but Sasha caught up with him, shoved him in the back, and the boy went sprawling. The gardener seized him again and bound him with his belt.
“Give me the ring!” Sasha shouted.
“Wait, master,” said Stepan. “We’ll take him to the steward and he’ll deal with him.”
The gardener led the prisoner to the manor yard, and Sasha went with them, casting worried glances at his torn and grass-stained trousers. Suddenly the three of them found themselves in front of Kirila Petrovich, who was on his way to inspect the stables.
“What’s this?” he asked Stepan.
Stepan briefly described the whole incident. Kirila Petrovich listened to him attentively.
“You scapegrace,” he said, turning to Sasha. “Why did you have anything to do with him?”
“He stole the ring from the hollow, papa. Tell him to give back the ring.”
“What ring, from what hollow?”
“The one Marya Kirilovna…the ring she…”
Sasha became embarrassed, confused. Kirila Petrovich frowned and said, shaking his head:
“So Marya Kirilovna’s mixed up in it. Confess everything, or I’ll give you such a birching you won’t know who you are.”
“By God, papa, I…Marya Kirilovna didn’t tell me to do anything, papa…”
“Stepan, go and cut me a good, fresh birch rod…”
“Wait, papa, I’ll tell you everything. Today I was running around in the yard, and my sister Marya Kirilovna opened the window, I ran over, and my sister accidentally dropped a ring, and I hid it in the hollow, and…and this red-haired boy wanted to steal it.”
“She accidentally dropped it, and you wanted to hide it…Stepan, fetch the rod.”
“Papa, wait, I’ll tell you everything. My sister Marya Kirilovna told me to run to the oak and put the ring in the hollow, so I ran and put the ring in it, and this nasty boy…”
Kirila Petrovich turned to the nasty boy and asked menacingly: “Whose are you?”
“I’m a household serf of the Dubrovskys,” replied the red-haired boy.
Kirila Petrovich’s face darkened.
“So it seems you don’t recognize me as your master. Fine,” he replied. “And what were you doing in my garden?”
“Stealing raspberries,” the boy replied with great indifference.
“Aha, servant and master, like priest, like parish. Do my raspberries grow on oak trees?”
The boy made no reply.
“Papa, tell him to give back the ring,” said Sasha.
“Quiet, Alexander,” replied Kirila Petrovich. “Don’t forget, I still intend to settle with you. Go to your room. And you, squint-eye, you seem bright enough. Give me the ring and go home.”
The boy opened his fist and showed that he had nothing in his hand.
“If you confess everything to me, I won’t thrash you, and I’ll give you five kopecks for nuts. If not, I’ll do something to you that you’d never expect. Well?”
The boy did not say a word and stood there, hanging his head and giving himself the look of a real little fool.
“Fine,” said Kirila Petrovich. “Lock him up somewhere and see that he doesn’t escape, or I’ll skin the whole household alive.”
Stepan took the boy to the dovecote, locked him in, and set the old poultry maid Agafya to keep watch on him.
“Go to town right now for the police chief,” said Kirila Petrovich, following the boy with his eyes, “as quick as you can.”
“There’s no doubt about it. She kept in touch with that cursed Dubrovsky. Can it really be that she called for his help?” thought Kirila Petrovich, pacing the room and angrily whistling “Thunder of victory.” “Maybe I’ve finally found his warm tracks, and he won’t get away from us. We must take advantage of the occasion. Hah! A bell. Thank God, it’s the police chief.”
“Hey! Bring me the boy we caught.”
Meanwhile a buggy drove into the yard, and the police chief already known to us came into the room all covered with dust.
“Great news,” Kirila Petrovich said to him. “I’ve caught Dubrovsky.”
“Thank God, Your Excellency,” the police chief said joyfully. “Where is he?”
“That is, not Dubrovsky, but one of his band. They’ll bring him presently. He’ll help us to catch their chief. Here he is.”
The police chief, who was expecting a fearsome robber, was amazed to see a thirteen-year-old boy of rather weak appearance. He turned to Kirila Petrovich in perplexity and waited for an explanation. Kirila Petrovich began at once to recount the morning’s incident, though without mentioning Marya Kirilovna.
The police chief listened to him attentively, glancing every other moment at the little scoundrel, who, pretending to be a fool, seemed to pay no attention to all that was going on around him.
“Allow me to speak with you in private, Your Excellency,” the police chief finally said.
Kirila Petrovich took him to another room and locked the door behind him.
Half an hour later they came back to the reception room where the prisoner was waiting for his fate to be decided.
“The master,” said the police chief, “wanted to put you in the town jail, have you flogged and then sent to a penal colony, but I interceded for you and persuaded him to forgive you. Untie him.”
The boy was untied.
“Thank the master,” said the police chief. The boy went up to Kirila Petrovich and kissed his hand.
“Go on home,” Kirila Petrovich said to him, “and in the future don’t steal raspberries from hollow trees.”
The boy went out, cheerfully jumped off the porch, and ran across the fields to Kistenevka without looking back. On reaching the village, he stopped at a dilapidated hut, the first at the edge, and knocked on the window; the window was raised, and an old woman appeared.
“Give me some bread, grandma,” said the boy. “I haven’t eaten since morning, I’m starved.”
“Ah, it’s you, Mitya. Where did you disappear to, you little devil?” the old woman replied.
“I’ll tell you later, grandma. Give me some bread, for God’s sake.”
“Come in, then.”
“No time, grandma, I still have to run somewhere else. Bread, for Christ’s sake, give me bread.”