"They have got smallpox, little lad."

Going back to his own ward, Pashka sat down on his bed and began
waiting for the doctor to come and take him to catch finches, or
to go to the fair. But the doctor did not come. He got a passing
glimpse of a hospital assistant at the door of the next ward. He
bent over the patient on whose head lay a bag of ice, and cried:
"Mihailo!"

But the sleeping man did not stir. The assistant made a gesture and
went away. Pashka scrutinised the old man, his next neighbour. The
old man coughed without ceasing and spat into a mug. His cough had
a long-drawn-out, creaking sound.

Pashka liked one peculiarity about him; when he drew the air in as
he coughed, something in his chest whistled and sang on different
notes.

"Grandfather, what is it whistles in you?" Pashka asked.

The old man made no answer. Pashka waited a little and asked:

"Grandfather, where is the fox?"

"What fox?"

"The live one."

"Where should it be? In the forest!"