“Oh, nothing. I kept it three days, then I felt ashamed, confessed, and gave it back.”
“And what then?”
“Naturally I was whipped. But why do you ask? Have you stolen something?”
“I have,” said Mitya, winking slyly.
“What have you stolen?” inquired Pyotr Ilyitch curiously.
“I stole twenty copecks from my mother when I was nine years old, and gave it back three days after.”
As he said this, Mitya suddenly got up.
“Dmitri Fyodorovitch, won’t you come now?” called Andrey from the door of the shop.
“Are you ready? We’ll come!” Mitya started. “A few more last words and—Andrey, a glass of vodka at starting. Give him some brandy as well! That box” (the one with the pistols) “put under my