ather heard it, too?"

"No, I told him."

"You--so"--drawled the sailor and became silent, taking up his work
again.

"And papa says to me: 'You,' he says, 'you are master here--you can
drive them all away if you wish.'"

"So," said the sailor, gloomily looking at the boy, who was so
enthusiastically boasting to him of his supreme power. From that day
on Foma noticed that the crew did not regard him as before. Some became
more obliging and kind, others did not care to speak to him, and
when they did speak to him, it was done angrily, and not at all
entertainingly, as before. Foma liked to watch while the deck was being
washed: their trousers rolled up to their knees, or sometimes taken off
altogether, the sailors, with swabs and brushes in their hands, cleverly
ran about the deck, emptying pails of water on it, besprinkling one
another, laughing, shouting, falling. Streams of water ran in every
direction, and the lively noise of the men intermingled with the gray
splash of the water. Before, the boy never bothered the sailors in this
playful and light work; nay, he took an active part, besprinkling them
with water and laughingly running away, when they threatened to pour
water over him. But after Yakov and Petrovich had been discharged, he
felt that he was in everybody's way, that no one cared to play with him
and that no one regarded him kindly. Surprised and melancholy, he left
the deck, walked up to the wheel, sat down there, and, offended, he
thoughtfully began to stare at the distant green bank and the dented
strip of woods upon it. And below, on the deck, the water was splashing
playfully, and the sailors were gaily laughing. He yearned to go down to
them, but something held him back.

"Keep away from them as much as possible," he recalled his father's
words; "you are their master." Then he felt like shouting at the
sailors--something harsh and authoritative, so his father would scold
them. He thought a long time what to say, but could not think of
anything. Another two, three days passed, and it became perfectly clear
to him that the crew no longer liked him. He began to feel lonesome on
the steamer, and amid the parti-coloured mist of new impressions, still
more often there came up before Foma the image of his kind and gentle
Aunt Anfisa, with her stories, and smiles, and soft, ringing laughter,
which filled the boy's soul with a joyous warmth. He still lived in the
world of fairy-tales, but the invisible