overed with sod.
     After that were tedious rows of barren soldiers' graves with crosses as
alike as rifles at the present.
     But  even this section  of the cemetery was too prosperous for Grandpa.
He was buried near the wall, in a narrow glade strewn with the purple shells
of Easter eggs. Behind  the wall the caps of mounted police could already be
seen. The  mourners  formed  a  close  circle around  the  grave. The  light
pauper's coffin was slowly let down with strips of linen.
     On every  side Petya saw lowered faces  and big black  hands  crumpling
workers' and fishermen's caps.
     The silence  was  so  complete and so sullen, and the  air so stifling,
that  the  boy felt  something dreadful would happen in  Nature-a tornado, a
hurricane, an earthquake -at the first sharp sound.
     But oppressive silence reigned.
     Motya was also depressed by the silence. With  one hand  she held on to
Petya's Gymnasium belt and with the other to  her mother's skirt.  She stood
motionless, watching the yellow mound of clay grow over the grave.
     At  last a  faint, almost noiseless  stir passed through the crowd. One
after another,  without  hurrying  or pushing, people  came up to  the fresh
grave,  crossed  themselves,  bowed  low, and offered  their  hand first  to
Motya's mother and then to Gavrik.
     Gavrik, who had given the bowl to Petya to hold, scooped up kolevo with
a new wooden spoon and poured it  into the cupped  hands or the outstretched
caps; he did it neatly, with a preoccupied frown, thriftily, giving a little
to each so that there should  be some for all. With tender  respect,  trying
not to drop a single grain, each mourner put the  kolevo into his mouth  and
walked away to give his place to another.
     This  was  all that Grandpa's family could offer  to  the  friends  and
acquaintances who shared their grief.
     To some of the fishermen who came up for kolevo Gavrik  bowed and said,
"Terenti sends you his regards. He asks you not to forget the May Day outing
at twelve o'clock tomorrow, in your own boats, opposite Arcadia."
     "We'll be there."
     Finally there were only four purple comfits left in the bowl.
     Gavrik made a dignified bow to  those  for whom nothing remained, said,
"Excuse us",  and distributed  the four  sweets among Zhenechka, Motya,  and
Petya, not forgetting himself, either.
     "It's not bad," he said  as he  handed Petya the sweet.  "Krakhmalnikov
Brothers. Eat it, in Grandpa's  memory. Will  you come to the May Day outing
with us tomorrow?"
     "I will," Petya said. He faced  the  grave  and bowed low, as everybody
else had.
     The crowd slowly dispersed. The cemetery became deserted.  Somewhere in
the distance, on the other side of the wall, a lone voice started to sing. A
chorus of voices joined in:

     Farewell, comrade, you honestly trod
     Your valorous, noble path. . . .

     But  a  police  whistle immediately resounded. The song stopped.  Petya
heard running feet on the other side of the wall. Then all was quiet.
     A few drops of rain fell on  the grave. But the rain was  only teasing;
it stopped before it had really started. It became muggier and gloomier than
ever.
     Motya,  her mother, Gavrik, and Petya crossed  themselves for  the last
time and set out for home.  Petya  said  good-bye to his friends at Kulikovo
Field.
     "So don't forget," said Gavrik significantly.
     "Naturally." Petya nodded with dignity.
     Then, with a show of nonchalance, he strolled up to Motya.
     "Say, Motya," he whispered quickly, blushing with humiliation at having
to ask a girl a question, "what's a May Day outing?"
     Motya's face took on a strict, somewhat solemn expression.
     "Workers' Easter," she replied.

        44
     THE MAY DAY OUTING

     All night long a  warm, gentle rain had fallen. It had started in April
and ended in May; a little after eight o'clock the wind had carried away the
last drops.
     The sky had not yet cleared, and now it merged with the sea, from which
rose a steaming mist; there was no horizon. The  bathing huts seemed to hang
in  milky  air.  Glossy,  curving reflections  of  the  piles swayed in  the
bottle-green water.
     Not only  was the  water warm but  it actually looked warm. Gavrik  and
Petya rowed along with pleasure.
     At first they bore down hard, to  see who could  outpull the other. But
Petya was no match for Gavrik.  The little fisherman  easily got  the  upper
hand over the Gymnasium pupil, and the boat kept describing circles.
     "Stop your fooling, lads," Terenti called from  his  seat in the stern,
where he was toying with his iron cane. "You'll overturn us."
     The  boys stopped competing but they immediately thought up a new game:
who could row with the less splash?
     Up until then  they had not  splashed much at all. But  the moment they
tried  not to,  spray flew from their oars  as though on  purpose. The  boys
began to shoulder and elbow each other.
     "Get away, you tramp!" shouted Petya, doubling over with laughter.
     "You're  a  tramp  yourself!"  Gavrik retorted,  tightening  his  lips.
Suddenly,  quite by  accident, his oar threw up such a fountain that Terenti
barely managed to save himself by sliding to the floor of the boat.
     The two boys choked with  laughter. Petya laughed so  hard that bubbles
formed on his lips.
     "Why all the splashing, you little hellhound?"
     "None of your lip."
     Terenti nearly lost  his temper, but then he too was taken by a fit  of
irrepressible  boyish  merriment.  Making  a ferocious face, he  gripped the
gunwales and rocked the boat with all his might.
     The  boys rolled on top of each other and their heads knocked together.
They cried blue murder. Then they began to pound the water madly with  their
oars, drenching Terenti from both sides.
     Terenti did not let it go  at that:  he quickly bent over, turned aside
his screwed-up face and, working his  palms with lightning speed, shot water
at the boys. In  a minute all three were wet from head to foot. Laughing and
sputtering, they lay back on the thwarts and moaned in exhaustion.
     The wind was clearing away the  mist. The sun dazzled the eye  from the
water as if a mirror had suddenly been placed beside the boat.
     The shore emerged from the haze like a transfer picture.
     A bright  May day began to sparkle in  all its blue, violet, and  green
colours.
     "Well, we've had our fun,  and that's that," Terenti said sternly. With
his sleeve he wiped his wet  forehead, across which ran a satiny white scar.
"Let's be on our way."
     The boys grew serious and leaned upon their oars.
     Petya worked hard,  puffing  and sticking out his tongue. To  tell  the
truth, he felt a bit tired. But he would never admit it in front of Gavrik.
     Something else troubled him, too: he was  dying to know whether the May
Day outing had already  begun or not. But  he did not want to ask because he
was  afraid  of  making a fool of himself,  as he had that  time about  Near
Mills.
     Motya had told him that a May Day outing was a  workers' Easter.  Well,
they had been rowing along the shore a good half-hour  now, but so far there
was no sign of any Easter cake, or ham, or Easter eggs. But perhaps that was
as it  should be. It wasn't an ordinary  Easter, after  all,  but a workers'
Easter.
     Finally the boy could hold out no longer.
     "I say there," he asked Terenti, "has the May Day outing started yet?"
     "No, not yet."
     "When will it, then? Soon?"
     The  minute  the  words  were  out  of  his  mouth  Petya  prepared  an
exaggeratedly gay and flattering smile.
     From  his many  years of  experience in conversing  with adults he knew
what would follow. "It'll start when it  begins." "But when will it  begin?"
"When it starts."
     To Petya's surprise, however, Terenti answered him as if he were a real
grown-up.
     "First we'll pick someone up at Maly Fontan and then we'll begin."
     At  Maly  Fontan  they  really  did  pick up  a passenger: a  dandified
gentleman carrying a cane and a string  bag. In a single leap he  was in the
boat and sitting  beside Terenti. He threw a furtive glance at the shore and
said, "Turn to. Cast off."
     It was the sailor.
     But-my God! How elegant he was!
     The  boys gaped at  him, enraptured and at the same time crushed by his
unexpected splendour. They  had  never imagined a  human being could  be  so
magnificent.
     He wore  cream-coloured trousers, green socks and dazzling white canvas
shoes. But that was not all.
     A red silk handkerchief showed from the pocket of his navy-blue jacket,
and a sapphire horseshoe gleamed in his tie with the "peacock's eye" design.
But that was not all.
     He  wore a bulging  starched  shirt-front,  and a starched collar  with
wings turned down like a visiting  card propped his cheeks. But that was not
all.
     A straw hat with a striped ribbon sat at a dashing angle on the back of
his head.
     But that was not all.
     A watch chain with a mass of trinkets on it dangled across his stomach,
and  on  his  hands, with  their  elegantly crooked fingers, were grey cloth
gloves. That was the finishing touch.
     While up  until now the  boys  had not definitely settled who were  the
grandest  beings on  earth-Army Staff  clerks  or kvass  vendors-now it  was
laughable even to consider the question.
     One could  boldly, sight unseen, give up all  the kvass vendors and all
the staff-clerks for the sailor's curly little moustache.
     The  boys were so busy looking at the dandy that  they forgot all about
rowing.
     "Look, Petya!" Gavrik exclaimed. "Look-he's wearing gloves!"
     The sailor spat through his teeth, farther than the boys had ever  spat
in their dreams. "Why should  everybody be able to see my  anchor?" he said,
with an  angry glance at Gavrik. "I covered it up.  Come now,  lads,  that's
enough fooling."
     He suddenly assumed an important air, twirled his moustache, glared  at
Terenti,  who was bent double with laughter, and barked: "Ahoy there, you in
the cutter! Listen to my command! Oars ready! Give way together! 'Un,  'un!"
he sang out, acting the bosun. "Back starboard! Un, un!
     The boys leaned on their oars. The boat turned to the open sea, towards
the gleaming silver flame of midday.
     Ahead of them, half a mile from shore, a cluster of fishing boats could
be seen.
     A burning feeling  of  exultant fear  gripped Petya.  Exactly  the same
feeling he  had had in the  autumn the first  time he followed Gavrik into a
section of the city surrounded by the police.
     But then the  boys had  been  alone.  Now  they were with  powerful and
mysterious grown-ups,  who  gave not the  slightest  sign that they had ever
seen Petya before.
     Petya  knew, however, that they  remembered  him  very  well. Once  the
sailor even winked at him, as if to say, "Here we  are, brother, still alive
and kicking!"
     For his part, Petya also made believe he was seeing the sailor for  the
first time in his life.
     All  this  made  it  jolly, although  a bit upsetting. In general,  the
occupants of the boat were in a keyed-up and somehow over-joyous mood.
     Soon  the boat was among a host of other fishing craft bobbing  up  and
down in one place opposite Arcadia, as arranged.
     A  whole  flotilla of  boats painted in  different  colours  surrounded
Grandpa's old, weather-beaten tub.
     Gathered  there were all  the fishermen who the  day  before had walked
behind  Grandpa's coffin-fishermen from Maly Fontan, Sredny Fontan, Valtukh,
Arcadia,  and Zolotoi Bereg. There were some from farther off, from Lustdorf
and Dofinovka, and even one from Ochakov.
     They were all old friends and neighbours.
     Taking advantage of  the occasion, the fishermen were leaning  over the
sides of their boats and  talking. They were making so much noise it sounded
like a marketplace. Each  new boat was greeted  with shouts,  jets of spray,
and the splash of oars.
     No sooner had Grandpa's boat, bumping and scraping against other boats,
made its way into  the circle, where  a few empty Sanzenbacher  beer bottles
already floated, when cries came from all sides:
     "Hi, Terenti!"
     "Easy there! You'll sink our tubs with your iron-clad!"
     "Hey, you tramps, make way for the chief politico!"
     "Say, Terenti old boy,  where'd you pick up  that dandy  of yours?  The
Lord preserve us! Oo-la-la, oui-oui, par-ley-voo!"
     Terenti waved  his cap, puffed  out his cheeks  and bowed to all  sides
with a show of bashful self-importance.
     "Don't pounce  on  me  all  at once!" he piped.  "At least take  turns.
Greetings, Fedya! Greetings, Stepan!
     Greetings, Grandpa Vasili! Ah, Mitya? Still alive? I was sure  the Maly
Fontan bullheads had swallowed you up long ago!  Tell me-how  many of you to
the pound, dried? Sasha, swing round to the left!"
     Terenti  grinned  and  screwed up  his face as he bantered with his old
pals. He  looked about him with satisfaction, reading aloud the names of the
boats.
     "Sonya,  another Sonya, and another Sonya, and again Sonya,  and  Sonya
from  Lustdorf, and another three from  Langeron. Hah!  Eight Sonyas to  one
little me! Nadya, Vera, Lyuba, Shura,  Motya. . ..  Oh, mother of mine! What
sort of place is this? I want to go home!" he cried in mock horror, covering
his face with his cap.
     There were also about four Olgas, half a dozen Natashas, not  less than
a dozen Three Bishops, and a big Ochakov  boat with the intriguing name Good
Old Pushkin.
     When silence and order finally set in,  Terenti nudged the  sailor with
his elbow.
     "Begin, Rodion."
     The sailor unhurriedly removed  his hat, put it in  his lap, and combed
his  moustache with a tiny comb. Then he stood up and, placing his legs wide
apart for balance, said in a loud, clear voice, so that everybody could hear
him, "Hello, comrade fishermen of Odessa! May Day greetings to you all!"
     His face instantly became bony, snub-nosed, decisive.
     "From what I just heard, some of you folks would like to know who  I am
and how I  come  to  be  here-an elegant gentleman in gloves and a  starched
shirt, ooo-la-la, parley-voo, and all that. Well, I  can tell you that I'm a
member of the Russian Social-Democratic Labour Party, the Bolshevik faction,
and I was sent here to you by the Odessa Joint Committee. Also that I'm just
the  same kind  of worker and sailor as all of you  here.  And now about the
starched shirt and  the white trousers and the rest of it. I'll explain that
with  a question of  my  own. All  of you here are  Odessa fishermen and you
probably can tell me the answer. Why does the mackerel wear such a beautiful
sky-blue  skin  with dark-blue  stripes, like watered silk? You don't  know?
Then  I can tell you. So that it won't be seen in our blue Black Sea, and so
that it won't be so easy for  you to catch it  on your fishermen's hooks. Is
that clear?"
     There was laughter in the boats. The sailor winked, shook his head, and
said, "Well, I'm just  like that fish who specially puts on the kind of coat
you won't notice right off."
     Louder laughter came from the boats.
     "A whopper of a fish!"
     "A whole dolphin!"
     "Ain't you afraid of being hooked some day?"
     The sailor waited until the calls stopped, and then remarked, "Just try
and catch me. I'm slippery."
     Then he continued:
     "I  look round me, comrades, and I  can't help thinking of our  sea and
our land. The sun shines bright. The sea is chock-full of all kinds of fish.
The fields  are chock-full of wheat. In  the orchards there's  all  kinds of
fruit: there's apples and apricots and cherries and  pears.  There's grapes.
In the steppe there's  horses and oxen and cows and  sheep. Down underground
there's gold  and  silver  and  iron and everything  else. What  more  could
anybody want? There's plenty for everybody, or so it  would seem. Plenty, so
it would  seem, for everybody to  be  happy and  satisfied. But what do  you
think? No! Everywhere there's always the rich, who don't do a stroke of work
but take everything for  themselves.  And  everywhere there's the  poor, who
work day and night like the damned and don't have a damned thing to show for
it! How is that? I  can  tell you the  answer.  It's  very simple.  Take the
fisherman. What does he do? He fishes.  He pulls  in a catch and takes it to
market. And  how much do you think he gets at the market, say, for a hundred
bullheads? Thirty or forty kopeks!"
     The sailor paused and glanced round.
     "You're lucky  if  you get thirty,"  said  an  old man  who looked like
Grandpa  and  was lying in the bow of a clumsy boat named the Dolphin.  "Day
before yesterday I brought  in four hundred and  she  wouldn't give me  more
than twenty-five-take  it  or  leave  it!  And  the next minute  she started
selling 'em herself for eighty."
     All  the fishermen began to speak at once. The sailor had touched their
sorest  spot. Some complained that  it was a dog's life if  you had no sail.
Others shouted that the market had them by the throat.
     While the grown-ups were  making so much  noise the  boys did not  miss
their opportunity. Some of the fishermen had brought their children along on
the outing. In the boats sat well-mannered girls in a brand-new print frocks
and barefoot scowling boys  with  shiny patches  of  skin  on their  apricot
cheeks. They wore  sateen Russian blouses and fishermen's  caps  with anchor
buttons. All of them, naturally, were Gavrik's pals.
     And naturally, they started to make no less noise than the grown-ups.
     They immediately began to tease one another, and before two minutes had
passed a regular sea  battle was  on. Gavrik got it in the face  with a dead
bullhead, while Petya's cap fell into the water and nearly sank.
     There  was so much noise  and such splashing that Terenti yelled, "Shut
up, everybody, or else I'll have to tear all your ears off!"
     "So it comes out,"  the sailor continued, shouting above the din, "that
the bosses  rob  us of three-quarters of what we earn  by  the sweat  of our
brow. And what do we do about it? The minute we raise our heads they give it
to  us  over the  noggin  with a sword. Crack! They're  still thrashing  us,
comrades, and pretty hard, too. We raised  the red flag on the Potemkin  but
we  weren't  able to hold  out.  We started an  uprising, and the same thing
happened. It's awful to think  of how much of our  working-class  blood  has
been spilled all over Russia! How many of  our brothers have perished on the
scaffold, in  the tsarist torture  chambers, in  the dungeons  of the secret
police! I don't have to tell you. You  know it yourself. Only yesterday  you
buried a fine old man of yours, who  quietly and  modestly gave his  life so
that his  grandsons  and  great-grandsons  might  be  happy.  His noble  old
worker's  heart had  stopped beating. His soul,  so precious  to us all, has
flown away. Where is it now? It's gone, never to return. For  all we know it
may be flying above us now, like  a gull, and is happy to see that we aren't
giving up our cause but intend  to fight again  and again for our freedom-to
fight until we finally throw the hated government from our backs."
     The  sailor  fell silent. He  wiped  his perspiring forehead  with  his
handkerchief. The wind played with  the piece of  red  silk as  if it were a
small banner.
     Deep, complete silence reigned over the boats.
     On shore, police whistles  were already sounding the  alarm. The sailor
looked in that direction and winked.
     "Our friends are getting worried. Never  mind. Let the pigs squeal, for
all the good it'll do 'em!"
     He thumbed his nose fiercely  at the  shore,  which  was sprinkled with
elegant umbrellas and panamas.
     An instant later  the  handsome Fedya, lounging  in  the stern  of  his
magnificent boat, the Nadya and Vera, struck up the "Longing for Home" march
on his concertina.
     Coloured eggs, dried sea-roaches, bread, and  bottles  appeared  in all
the boats as if out of nowhere.
     The sailor  dug  into his string  bag and produced  some  refreshments,
which  he divided equally among everybody in the boat. Petya's share  was  a
wonderful dried sea-roach, two monastery rolls and a purple egg.
     The May Day outing really did prove to be a merry workers' Easter.
     Policemen  ran along the shore, whistling. The boats began to pull away
in different directions.
     From  the  other  side of  the horizon  rose plaster-of-Paris heads  of
clouds.
     Fedya  turned his face up to the sky and  dropped his arm over the side
of  the boat. In a  clear, strong tenor he began to sing the famous sailor's
song:

     The sea is broad and deep,
     And land is seen no more.
     Comrade, were sailing far-
     Far from our native shore.

     Oars flashed. The song floated on.

     "Comrade, I'm done for, I cannot go on,"
     The stoker then said to his mate. . . .

     Now  the song could  barely be heard. "Oars  ready!" the sailor ordered
the boys. "Give way together!"
     Clapping Terenti on the back, he sang out:

     A small white ship
     In the deep Black Sea.
     Soon my darling sailor
     Will come home to me.

     "Come  on,  you tramps! Why don't  you help?" Terenti and the  two boys
gaily chimed in:

     Weep no more, Marusya,
     You will yet be mine.
     Soon I will sail back to you
     Across the foamy brine.

     A white seagull glided noiselessly over the boat on outspread wings. It
was  as if the gull had caught the gay song in flight and  carried it off in
its coral beak like a fluttering silver fish.
     For  a long time the boys followed  the bird with their eyes, wondering
whether this could be Grandpa's snow-white soul come to look at his boat and
at his grandsons.
     The May Day outing was over.
     But they did not come in to the shore right away. They circled about in
the sea for another two hours or so, waiting for the right moment.
     First they dropped Terenti  off near  Zolotoi Bereg, and then they took
the sailor to Langeron.
     Before stepping ashore the sailor looked round for a long time. Finally
he waved his hand, said, "Well, here's trusting to luck", put his smart cane
with its  horse's head handle of German silver under his arm, and jumped out
of the boat.
     "Thanks, lads," he said hastily. "Till our next pleasant meeting."
     With these words he disappeared in the crowd of promenaders.
     Petya returned home  by dinner-time, with blisters  on  his palms and a
face burned a deep red in one day.

        45
     A FAIR WIND

     A week passed.
     During this time Petya did not make a single visit to the shore. He was
busy getting ready to leave for the farm. He  went into town, sometimes with
Daddy, sometimes with Auntie Tatyana, to buy things.
     Real summer had already come.
     In Odessa, there is no difference at all between May and June. The city
was  sweltering. Striped awnings with curved  red  trimming had been lowered
over balconies and shop-fronts. On them lay the  clear-cut  shade of acacias
just beginning to bloom.
     Dogs  ran  along  with  their tongues hanging out,  looking  for water.
Between the  houses, a view of a flaming sea  would suddenly open up. In the
"Centre", money-changers and flower-girls sat  at little green  tables under
big canvas sunshades.
     Your heels sank into the  soft asphalt. Here and there and  everywhere,
tar was bubbling in hellish cauldrons.
     What fun it was to spend the whole day going  from one shop to another,
buying  holiday things  for  the  country:  a hoop, sandals, butterfly nets,
fishing rods, rubber balls, fireworks .. . and then to come home on the open
summer horse-tram with all those light odd-shaped packages!
     Petya's body was still languishing in the sultry city but his impatient
spirit had flown far ahead: it was already on the steamer,  it floated along
in the blue breeze of voyage.
     But  early  one  morning  a familiar whistle sounded. Petya  ran to the
window and saw Gavrik in the middle of the courtyard.
     A minute later  he was downstairs. Gavrik looked unusually worried. His
greyish face, his tightly  pressed lips and  the unnatural brightness in his
eyes meant that some misfortune had taken place.
     Petya's heart contracted.
     "What's up?"  he  asked, lowering  his voice to a whisper without being
aware of it.
     Gavrik frowned and turned aside.
     "Nothing. Want to go out with us in the boat?"
     "When?"
     "Now. Me, Motya, and you. Under sail."
     "You're lying."
     "Only dogs lie."
     ^Under sail?"
     "You can spit in my eye."
     "For a trip?"
     "Call it a trip. Coming?"
     "What a question!"
     "Then be snappy!"
     A trip in the boat, under sail!
     Naturally Petya did not bother  to  go back  for  his cap. Ten  minutes
later the boys were on the shore.
     The boat, with the mast in place and a furled sail on  it, lay half  in
the water, rocking gently.
     Motya,  barefooted,  stood  inside.  She  was  busy putting  the  oaken
water-keg and a big loaf of rye bread into the box at the stern.
     "Give us a  hand,  Petya,"  said Gavrik, putting  his shoulder  to  the
stern.
     The boys pushed off without any special difficulty and then jumped in.
     "We're off!"
     Gavrik skilfully  unfurled and set the new rectangular sail.  The light
breeze slowly filled it.  The boat  heeled.  Kneeling  in the  stern, Gavrik
attached the heavy rudder with an effort and fixed the tiller to it.
     The boat, yielding to the rudder, went straighter.
     "Look out!"
     Petya squatted and ducked just in time. The  boom, turned by the  wind,
swung  heavily  from  left to  right directly over his head, opening  up the
glistening sea and hiding from  sight the  clay shore where Motya's  mother,
shading her  eyes  with her  hand,  stood knee-deep  in the weeds  and  wild
parsley.
     Gavrik  bore  down on  the tiller and put the weight of his back to it.
The  mast tipped. The  water along the side began to gurgle. Bouncing up and
slapping  the waves with its  flat bottom, the boat came out into open water
and then sailed along parallel with the shore. "Where to?" Petya asked,
     "You'll see."
     "Far?"
     "You'll find out."
     That hard, tense light came into Gavrik's eyes again.
     Petya looked at Motya. She sat on  the prow with her bare  legs hanging
over  the  sides and stared straight in front of her. Her cheeks were pulled
in sternly; the wind ruffled her hair, not yet long enough to be braided.
     For some time all three were silent.
     Suddenly  Gavrik reached into his pocket and  pulled out a rather large
blue steel watch. He put it importantly to his ear, listened to its ticking,
and then,  not without  difficulty,  pried open the  cover with a fingernail
that had a mass of little white spots on it-a sure sign, as everybody knows,
of good luck.
     Had Gavrik  pulled out  a squirming adder  or  a  handful  of  precious
stones, Petya would have been less surprised.
     A pocket-watch  of his own!  Why, that was almost the same as  owning a
bicycle, or a Monte Cristo! Come to think of it, perhaps even more.
     Petya caught his breath. He could not believe his eyes. He was crushed.
     Meanwhile  Gavrik  was  intently   counting   the  numerals  with   his
forefinger.
     "One  o'clock, two,  three, four, five. . ."  he mumbled. "Nine  and  a
little bit more. That's all right. We'll make it on time."
     "Let's see it!" cried Petya, overcome with amazement.
     "Hands off, it's not for sale."
     "Is it yours?"
     "No."
     Gavrik took  Petya  by the  sleeve and  pulled  him  close.  "It's  the
Committee's," he whispered mysteriously. "See?"
     "I see," Petya  replied, also in a whisper,  although he really did not
see a thing.
     "Now listen," Gavrik continued, glancing at Motya  out of the corner of
his eye. "Our sailor's caught. See? He's in jail. Been there five days. They
caught him in Langeron, right after the May Day  outing.  But his papers are
in a different  name, and so  far it's all right.  But  if those snakes ever
find out,  you  can say your prayers for him, because they'll hang him in  a
jiffy.  See? And  they  can  find  out  any minute. They can shave  off  his
moustache and find some  skunk who'll give him away. So  now you see  what a
fix it is?"
     "You're kidding!" Petya exclaimed in fright.
     "If I said it it means I know what I'm talking about. Now listen to me.
Before they find out who he is, the Committee's going to help him break out.
Today. At half past ten on the dot  he's  going  to break out of jail and go
straight to Bolshoi  Fontan.  From there  he'll  sail  in our  boat back  to
Rumania.  So now you know where we're going? To Bolshoi Fontan. We're taking
the boat there. Terenti brought me the watch from the Committee so we  won't
be late."
     Gavrik pulled out the watch again and examined it attentively.
     "Almost ten. We'll be just on time."
     "How will  he  break out?" Petya whispered.  "What about the guards and
the sentries?"
     "That's  nothing. At half past ten they let them out for a walk. In the
prison yard. All he has  to  do is run across  the vegetable patches  to the
Maly  Fontan road. Terenti'll be waiting  for him there in a  droshky.  Then
they'll come straight to the boat. See?"
     "Yes. But how'll he get over the prison wall? It's as high as anything.
It's like the second storey. He'll start climbing and they'll shoot him down
with their rifles."
     Gavrik made a wry face as if he had eaten something sour.
     "Naw! Listen. Why  should he  climb over the wall?  Terenti'll  blow it
up."
     "What do you mean?"
     "You're a funny bloke. Just what I said:  blow it up. He'll blow a hole
in it.  Last night a man from the Committee put dymanite under it. Today, on
the  dot of  half  past ten,  just  when our  sailor's  let  out for a walk,
Terenti'll  light  the fuse on the other side and run to the  droshky. He'll
wait. And then the dymanite'll go bang."
     Petya gave Gavrik a stern look.
     "What'll go bang?"
     "The dymanite,"
     "The what?"
     "The dymanite," Gavrik repeated, but with much  less  confidence. "What
explodes. Why?"
     "Not dymanite but dynamite," Petya said, in the tone of a tutor.
     "Call it whatever you want, as long as it blows that wall down."
     Only  now  did the meaning  of  Gavrik's  words  sink  in.  Petya  felt
goose-flesh break out on his back.
     He looked at his friend with big dark eyes.
     "Swear it's true."
     "Honour bright."
     "Cross yourself."
     "By the true and holy Cross on the church."
     Gavrik faced  the monastery cupolas of Bolshoi Fontan and  quickly  and
fervently  crossed himself.  But Petya took his word for it without that. He
had made him cross himself just as a matter of form. Petya felt with all his
heart that it was the truth.
     Gavrik lowered the sail. The boat bumped  against a small landing stage
for rowing boats on a rugged and deserted shore.
     "Got a handkerchief?" Gavrik asked Petya.
     "Yes "
     "Show it here."
     Petya took  out a  handkerchief at  the  sight of which Auntie  Tatyana
surely would have fainted.
     Gavrik, however, was quite satisfied with it.
     "It'll come in handy," he said gravely, with an important nod. "Stow it
away."
     Then he looked at the watch. It was "ten and just a teeny bit more".
     "I'll stay in the boat," Gavrik said, "and you and Motya run  up to the
top of the hill and stand in  the lane. To meet 'em. The minute you see  'em
wave your handkerchief and I'll put the sail. Understand, Petya?"
     "Uh-huh. But what if the sentry kills them?"
     "He'll miss," Gavrik  said confidently, with  a grim  smile.  "He comes
from  Dofinovka. He's  a  friend. Go up there now, Petya. As soon as you see
'em start waving. Can you do it?"
     "What a question!"
     Petya and Motya climbed out of the boat and ran up the hill.
     Here, as  everywhere along the shore  from Lustdorf  to  Langeron,  the
children knew every path. Making their way through the bushes of wild lilac,
the boy and the girl reached the top of the high bluff and stopped in a lane
between two villas.
     From there they could see both the road and the sea.
     Far below, a  little  boat was  bobbing  up and  down  next to an  even
smaller landing stage. Gavrik himself could barely be seen.
     "Now  listen, Motya," said Petya after he had sized  up  the situation.
"I'll climb this mulberry tree because I can see further from there, and you
keep a sharp eye out too. Let's see who sees 'em first."
     To tell the  truth, there was no need to climb the tree, for there  was
an excellent view from below. But Petya now  felt that he was in command. He
was eager to give orders and perform deeds.
     He took a run and clambered up the tree, grunting. Before he knew it he
had  torn his  trousers at the knees. But  that did not disturb  him. On the
contrary, it only made him grimmer and prouder.
     He straddled a branch and frowned.
     "Well, what are you standing still for? Walk up and down!"
     "Right away."
     The girl looked up at  Petya with frightened, devoted eyes, pulled  her
skirt  straight with both hands, and set  off sedately down the lane towards
the road.
     "Stop! Wait!"
     Motya stopped.
     "Now, listen. The minute  you see 'em, yell to me. And the minute I see
'em I'll yell to you. All right?"
     "All right," the girl said in a piping voice.
     "Well, go ahead."
     Motya  turned and walked  in the thick shade of greenish-milky  acacias
just about to bloom; in the dust she left imprints of her bare heels.
     She went to the corner, stood there a while, and then came back.
     "Not yet. How about your side?"
     "Not on my side either. Go further."
     The girl again went to the  corner  and again returned to say there was
no sight of them on her side.
     "The same here. Walk some more."
     At first Petya liked this game very much.
     It was uncommonly pleasant to sit high up in a tree and strain his eyes
for the sight of a speeding carriage at the end of the lane.
     How clearly he pictured it! The carriage flies up, drawn by a horse all
in lather, with the coachman waving his whistling whip overhead. Terenti and
the sailor jump out, revolvers in their hands. Prison guards run after them.
Terenti and the  sailor shoot it out with them. One after another the guards
drop dead. Petya waves  his handkerchief with all  his might,  jumps  nimbly
from  the tree  and speeds down the bluff, ahead of everybody else,  to help
put  up the sail. As to Motya,  she only  now realises that it was they  who
came. But that can't be helped: she's nothing but a girl. . . .
     But time passed, and no one drove up. It was becoming tedious.
     Petya was tired of looking at the blinding white road. All that came by
was a carriage with an English  coachman dressed  like Evgeni Onegin,  and a
thundering  ice-wagon.  After  the  ice-wagon, he  felt especially  hot  and
especially thirsty.
     He had long since made  a  thorough  examination of the nearby villa: a
bright-green  lawn, gravel on the walks, thuja trees, a statue  spotted with
purple blots of shadow, a vase  from which  long  sharp leaves of aloe  hung
down, and an artist painting a landscape.
     The  artist, who had a curly  little  moustache, a pointed  beard and a
velvet beret,  sat under an umbrella on a  little  folding chair with a duck
seat. He was leaning back  and poking at the canvas on the easel with a long
brush.
     He would take a poke and then a look, another poke and another look.
     Fitted on his outstretched left thumb was his palette, that  oval board
which was  much more  beautiful than the  picture itself;  there, in mad but
magic disorder, were mixed all the colours and shades of the sea, sky, clay,
lilacs, grass, clouds, the boat. . . .
     In the meantime the  dusty carriage  had long since arrived and two men
were coming slowly up the lane. Ahead of them  ran Motya, shouting, "They've
already come on my side. Wave your handkerchief! Wave it!"
     Petya nearly fell  off the  tree. He pulled  out  his  handkerchief and
waved it desperately over his head.
     The boat started to rock harder. Petya saw  that Gavrik was  jumping up
and down and waving his hands.
     Terenti and  the sailor passed  under the  mulberry tree in which Petya
sat. Sweat streamed down their fiery-red faces. Petya could hear their heavy
breathing.
     The sailor  limped  badly.  He  was  without  a  hat,  and his  elegant
cream-coloured trousers-the same trousers in which Petya had  last seen  him
during the May Day outing-were torn and smeared with brick dust.
     His shirt-front was dirty and half-torn, showing a bulging chest  shiny
from sweat.
     The sailor's clenched fists looked as though they  were bound with  the
blue cords of his veins. His moustache drooped. His cheekbones jutted out of
his stubbly face. There was a hard sparkle in his eyes. His throat twitched.
     "Hello!" cried Petya.
     Terenti and the sailor looked up and grinned. Petya thought the  sailor
even winked at him.
     But now they were already  running down to the  sea, leaving a cloud of
dust behind them.
     "I saw them first!" said Motya.
     Petya climbed down from the tree. He made believe he had not heard.
     The boy and the girl stood side by side looking down at the boat, which
was setting sail.
     They saw the small figure of the sailor jump in. The sail billowed out.
The wind  carried it away  from shore  as though  it  were a petal. Now only
Terenti  and Gavrik  stood  on  the landing  stage. A  minute  later Terenti
disappeared.
     Gavrik  remained  alone.  He  waved  to  Petya  and Motya, then started
unhurriedly up the bluff.
     Bouncing  and cleaving the  waves,  the  boat quickly made for the open
sea, the bright-blue, heaving sea.
     "He's all by himself," said Petya.
     "That's all right. We put in some bread for him. A whole big  loaf. And
eight smoked sea-roaches."
     Soon Gavrik joined Petya and Motya.
     "Thank the Lord we got  him  off," he  said, crossing himself.  "It was
some job!"
     "What about the boat?" asked Petya. "Will it be lost?"
     "Yes, it's lost," Gavrik said glumly, scratching the top of his head.
     "How will you get along without a boat?"
     "Never fear. We'll manage somehow."
     There was nowhere to hurry to.
     The children climbed  over the fence and  stopped  quietly  behind  the
artist.
     The landscape was almost finished.  They held their breath,  spellbound
by the miraculous appearance of a whole world on a little piece of canvas; a
world altogether different from the real one yet  at  the same  time exactly
like it.
     "The sea's there, but not the boat," whispered Motya. She laid her hand
on Petya's shoulder, as though by accident, and tittered.
     Just then the artist picked  up a drop of white on a thin brush, and in
the  very middle of the canvas, in the lacquered blue of the sea he had just
painted, he put a small bulging comma.
     "The sail!" breathed Motya, enchanted.
     Now  the  painted sea  could  not  be  told  apart  from  the real one.
Everything was the same. Even the sail.
     Nudging one another,  the  children stood there for a long time looking
now at the painting, now at  the real and very  broad open sea, in the misty
blueness of  which the little sail of Grandpa's boat, as light and airy as a
seagull, was dissolving.

     Below, the sea is crystal azure,
     Above, the sun is gold aglow.
     But it is storm the rebel thirsts for,
     He will find peace in storm alone.