"I am talking--I know," replied Yefim, hesitating. "There was no
agreement--that I must say nothing."

"And who is going to suck blood?" asked Ignat, stroking his beard.

The sailor understood that he had been caught unawares, and seeing no
way out of it, he let the log of wood fall from his hands, rubbed his
palms against his pants, and, facing Ignat squarely, said rather boldly:

"And am I not right? Don't you suck it?"

"I?"

"You."

Foma saw that his father swung his hand. A loud blow resounded,
and the sailor fell heavily on the wood. He arose immediately and
worked on in silence. Blood was trickling from his bruised face
on to the white bark of the birch wood; he wiped the blood off
his face with the sleeve of his shirt, looked at his sleeve and,
heaving a sigh, maintained silence, and when he went past Foma
with the hand-harrows, two big, turbid tears were trembling on
his face, near the bridge of his nose, and Foma noticed them.

At dinner Foma was pensive and now and then glanced at his father
with fear in his eyes.

"Why do you frown?" asked his father, gently.

"Frown?"