After dinner the boy went to his room, took the coupon and the change
out of his pocket, and threw the money on the table. After that he took
off his uniform and put on a jacket.

He sat down to work, and began to study Latin grammar out of a
dog's-eared book. After a while he rose, closed and bolted the door,
shifted the money into a drawer, took out some cigarette papers, rolled
one up, stuffed it with cotton wool, and began to smoke.

He spent nearly two hours over his grammar and writing books without
understanding a word of what he saw before him; then he rose and began
to stamp up and down the room, trying to recollect all that his father
had said to him. All the abuse showered upon him, and worst of all his
father's angry face, were as fresh in his memory as if he saw and heard
them all over again. "Silly boy! You ought to get a good thrashing!" And
the more he thought of it the angrier he grew. He remembered also how
his father said: "I see what a scoundrel you will turn out. I know you
will. You are sure to become a cheat, if you go on like that." He had
certainly forgotten how he felt when he was young! "What crime have I
committed, I wonder? I wanted to go to the theatre, and having no money
borrowed some from Petia Grouchetsky. Was that so very wicked of me?
Another father would have been sorry for me; would have asked how it all
happened; whereas he just called me names. He never thinks of anything
but himself. When it is he who has not got something he wants--that is a
different matter! Then all the house is upset by his shouts. And I--I am
a scoundrel, a cheat, he says. No, I don't love him, although he is my
father. It may be wrong, but I hate him."

There was a knock at the door. The servant brought a letter--a message