“Eh, Alyósha,” he said to the dancer, pointing at Doútlof, “there’s your godfather!”
“Where? You, my dearest friend!” shouted Alyósha, the very recruit whom Doútlof had bought; and staggering forward on his weary legs and holding the bottle of vodka above his head, he moved towards the cart.
“Míshka, a glass!” he cried to the player. “Master … you’re my dearest friend. What a pleasure, really!” he shouted, drooping his tipsy head over the cart, and he began to treat the men and women to vodka. The men drank, but the women refused.
“My own friends, what could I present you with?” exclaimed Alyósha, embracing the old woman.
A woman selling eatables was standing among the crowd. Alyósha noticed her, seized her tray, and poured its contents into the cart.
“I’ll pay, no fear, you devil!” he howled tearfully, pulling a purse from his pocket and throwing it to Míshka. He stood leaning with his elbows on the cart, and looking with moist eyes at those who sat inside.
“Which is the mother … you?” he asked. “I’ll make an offering to you too.”
He stood thinking for a moment, then he put his hand in his pocket and drew out a new folded handkerchief, hurriedly took off a towel which was tied round his waist under his coat, and also a red scarf he was wearing round his neck; and, crumpling them all together, shoved them into the old woman’s lap.