"Anatoly Rybakov. The dirk (Кортик, англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автораput it back under the kennel, covered it with earth, and returned to the
porch. The gates of neighbouring yards were thrown open with a clatter and the cows, their tails swishing, lumbered out importantly to join a passing herd. They were followed by a boy who wore a long ragged coat that came down to his bare heels and a sheepskin cap. He was shouting at the cows and deftly cracking a whip that trailed after him in the dust like a snake. Misha thought of the dirk as he sat on the porch making the catapult. It was an ordinary one, except for the small bronze serpent. But what was Polevoy hiding it for? He finished the catapult. It was better than Genka's, he was sure, and, to try it, he picked up a stone and let it fly at some sparrows hopping in the street. The stone missed the target. The sparrows flew off and alighted on the neighbouring fence. Misha wanted to try another shot but was stopped by the sound of steps in the house, the grating of the damper, and the splashing of water in the tub. He hid the catapult under his shirt and went into the kitchen. Grandmother was moving large baskets of cherries that stood on a bench. She was wearing a greasy dressing-gown, the pockets weighed down with keys. Her plump face was careworn and furrowed with wrinkles, and near-sightedness made her blink her small, slightly squinting eyes. "Take your hands off!" she exclaimed when Misha put his hand into a basket. "The idea... with dirty paws!" "Stingy!" Misha grumbled. "You can have some later. Go and wash yourself first." tip of his nose, slid his hands across the towel, and went to the dining-room. Grandfather was already there, sitting in his customary seat "at the head of the long table covered with a brown oilcloth with a flowered pattern. He was a grey-haired old man with a thin beard and a reddish moustache, and when Misha came in he was using his thumb to carry a pinch of tobacco to his nostrils and sneezing into a yellow handkerchief. There was laughter in his lively eyes, set in kindly beaming wrinkles, and from his jacket came a mild, pleasant smell, that was exclusively his own. Breakfast had not yet been served, and to while away the time Misha pushed his plate into the middle of a rose in the pattern of the oilcloth and with his fork traced a ring round it. A deep scratch appeared on the oilcloth. "My respects to Mikhail Grigoryevich!" Polevoy's merry voice boomed behind Misha. Polevoy came out of his room with a towel tied round his waist. "Good morning, Sergei Ivanovich," Misha replied with a sly look at Polevoy: he would never guess that Misha knew about the dirk! Misha covered the scratch with his elbows when Grandmother carried the samovar into the room. "Where's Senya?" Grandfather asked. "In the store-room," Grandmother replied. "Took it into his head to repair his bicycle at this unearthly hour!" Misha started at these words and took his elbows off the table, |
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