“No, I don’t want it to belong to both of us, I want it to be mine altogether, not Ilusha’s,” persisted mamma, on the point of tears.
“Take it, mother, here, keep it!” Ilusha cried. “Krassotkin, may I give it to my mother?” he turned to Krassotkin with an imploring face, as though he were afraid he might be offended at his giving his present to someone else.
“Of course you may,” Krassotkin assented heartily, and, taking the cannon from Ilusha, he handed it himself to mamma with a polite bow. She was so touched that she cried.
“Ilusha, darling, he’s the one who loves his mamma!” she said tenderly, and at once began wheeling the cannon to and fro on her lap again.
“Mamma, let me kiss your hand.” The captain darted up to her at once and did so.
“And I never saw such a charming fellow as this nice boy,” said the grateful lady, pointing to Krassotkin.
“And I’ll bring you as much powder as you like, Ilusha. We make the powder ourselves now. Borovikov found out how it’s made—twenty-four parts of saltpeter, ten of sulphur and six of birchwood charcoal. It’s all pounded together, mixed into a paste with water and rubbed through a tammy sieve—that’s how it’s done.”
“Smurov told me about your powder, only father says it’s not real gunpowder,” responded Ilusha.
“Not real?” Kolya flushed. “It burns. I don’t know, of course.”