Do it again, if you like, I'm at your service.' But he didn't stab me
again; he broke down, he was frightened at what he had done, he threw away
the knife, burst out crying, and ran away. I did not sneak on him, of
course, and I made them all keep quiet, so it shouldn't come to the ears
of the masters. I didn't even tell my mother till it had healed up. And
the wound was a mere scratch. And then I heard that the same day he'd been
throwing stones and had bitten your finger--but you understand now what a
state he was in! Well, it can't be helped: it was stupid of me not to come
and forgive him--that is, to make it up with him--when he was taken ill. I
am sorry for it now. But I had a special reason. So now I've told you all
about it ... but I'm afraid it was stupid of me."

"Oh, what a pity," exclaimed Alyosha, with feeling, "that I didn't know
before what terms you were on with him, or I'd have come to you long ago
to beg you to go to him with me. Would you believe it, when he was
feverish he talked about you in delirium. I didn't know how much you were
to him! And you've really not succeeded in finding that dog? His father
and the boys have been hunting all over the town for it. Would you believe
it, since he's been ill, I've three times heard him repeat with tears,
'It's because I killed Zhutchka, father, that I am ill now. God is
punishing me for it.' He can't get that idea out of his head. And if the
dog were found and proved to be alive, one might almost fancy the joy
would cure him. We have all rested our hopes on you."

"Tell me, what made you hope that I should be the one to find him?" Kolya
asked, with great curiosity. "Why did you reckon on me rather than any one
else?"

"There was a report that you were looking for the dog, and that you would
bring it when you'd found it. Smurov said something of the sort. We've all
been trying to persuade Ilusha that the dog is alive, that it's been seen.
The boys brought him a live hare; he just looked at it, with a faint
smile, and asked them to set it free in the fields. And so we did. His
father has just this moment come back, bringing him a mastiff pup, hoping
to comfort him with that; but I think it only makes it worse."

"Tell me, Karamazov, what sort of man is the father? I know him, but what
do you make of him--a mountebank, a buffoon?"

"Oh, no; there are people of deep feeling who have been somehow crushed.
Buffoonery in them is a form of resentful irony agai