Antanas was now over a year and a half old, and was a perfect talking-machine. He learned so fast that every week when Jurgis came home it seemed to him as if he had a new child. He would sit down and listen and stare at him, and give vent to delighted exclamations⁠—“ Palauk! Muma! Tu mano szirdele! ” 23 The little fellow was now really the one delight that Jurgis had in the world⁠—his one hope, his one victory. Thank God, Antanas was a boy! And he was as tough as a pine-knot, and with the appetite of a wolf. Nothing had hurt him, and nothing could hurt him; he had come through all the suffering and deprivation unscathed⁠—only shriller-voiced and more determined in his grip upon life. He was a terrible child to manage, was Antanas, but his father did not mind that⁠—he would watch him and smile to himself with satisfaction. The more of a fighter he was the better⁠—he would need to fight before he got through.