“Petrúshka, go and put in the mare,” said the eldest brother.

“All right,” replied Petrúshka with a smile, and promptly snatching his cap down from a nail he ran away to harness.

While the horse was being harnessed the talk returned to the point at which it had stopped when Vasíli Andréevich drove up to the window. The old man had been complaining to his neighbour, the village elder, about his third son who had not sent him anything for the holiday though he had sent a French shawl to his wife.

“The young people are getting out of hand,” said the old man.

“And how they do!” said the neighbour. “There’s no managing them! They know too much. There’s Demóchkin now, who broke his father’s arm. It’s all from being too clever, it seems.”