"Calm yourself, father!" said Taras, slowly rising from his chair
and walking up to his father. "Why confuse the young man? Come,
let us sit down."
He gave Foma a fleeting smile, and, taking his father by the arm,
led him toward the table.
"I believe in blood," said Yakov Tarasovich; "in hereditary
blood. Therein lies all power! My father, I remember, told me:
'Yashka, you are my genuine blood!' There. The blood of the
Mayakins is thick--it is transferred from father to father and no
woman can ever weaken it. Let us drink some champagne! Shall we?
Very well, then! Tell me more--tell me about yourself. How is it
there in Siberia?"
And again, as though frightened and sobered by some thought, the
old man fixed his searching eyes upon the face of his son. And a
few minutes later the circumstantial but brief replies of his son
again aroused in him a noisy joy. Foma kept on listening and
watching, as he sat quietly in his corner.
"Gold mining, of course, is a solid business," said Taras,
calmly, with importance, "but it is a rather risky operation and
one requiring a large capital.
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