Yakov
Tarasovich was at home. Attired in his holiday clothes, in a long
frock coat with medals on his breast, he stood on the threshold
with his hands outstretched, clutching at the door posts. His
green little eyes examined Foma, and, feeling their look upon
him, Foma raised his head and met them.
"How do you do, my fine gentleman?" said the old man, shaking his
head reproachfully. "Where has it pleased you to come from, may I
ask? Who has sucked off that fat of yours? Or is it true that a
pig looks for a puddle, and Foma for a place which is worse?"
"Have you no other words for me?" asked Foma, sternly, looking
straight into the old man's face. And suddenly he noticed that
his godfather shuddered, his legs trembled, his eyes began to
blink repeatedly, and his hands clutched the door posts with an
effort. Foma advanced toward him, presuming that the old man was
feeling ill, but Yakov Tarasovich said in a dull and angry voice:
"Stand aside. Get out of the way."
And his face assumed its usual expression.
Foma stepped back and found himself side by side with a rather
short, stout man, who bowed to Mayakin, and said in a hoarse
voice:
"How do you do, papa?"
"How are you, Taras Yakovlich, how are you?" said the old man,
bowing, smiling distractedly, and still clinging to the door
posts.
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