"Anatoly Rybakov. The dirk (Кортик, англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

yesterday made him shake off his sleepiness, and he picked his way carefully
across the squeaky floor-boards to the store-room.
A narrow ray of light coming from a tiny window near the ceiling fell
on a bicycle against the wall. It was an old machine that had been assembled
from spare parts; its tyres were flat, the spokes broken and rusty, and the
chain cracked. On the wall over the bicycle hung a torn inner tube with
patches of every hue and colour; Misha took it down, cut out two thin strips
with his penknife, and replaced it so that the cuts were hidden against the
wall.
He cautiously opened the door and was about to leave the storeroom,
when he suddenly caught sight of Polevoy in the passage, barefooted, in a
striped jersey and with his hair all rumpled. Misha softly pulled the door
back, leaving it slightly ajar, and watched through the narrow opening.
Polevoy went into the yard, stopped in front of a neglected kennel, and
looked about him attentively.
"Why isn't he asleep?" Misha wondered. "And he's behaving queerly,
too."
Everyone called Polevoy "Comrade Commissar." He was a tall strongly
built man with fair hair and sly, laughing eyes. He had once been a sailor,
and he always wore wide black trousers and a jacket that smelled of tobacco,
and carried a revolver on a belt under the jacket. All the boys envied Misha
because Polevoy lived in his house.
"Why isn't he in bed?" Misha thought. "Now I'll never get out of here!"
Polevoy sat on a log near the kennel and looked round the yard again.
His searching gaze swept the opening Misha was peeping through and the
windows of the house.
Then he slipped his hand under the kennel, rummaged about a long time
evidently feeling for something, and finally straightened up, rose to his
feet, and went back to the house. The door of his room made a scraping
sound, the bed creaked under his heavy weight, and everything became still
again.
Misha wanted to start making a catapult right away, but he also wanted
to know what Polevoy had looked for under the kennel. He moved up to it
stealthily, then stopped to think.
Should he look? What if someone saw him? Misha sat on the log and eyed
the windows. No, it was wrong to be so inquisitive ... he scooped out the
earth and thrust his hand under the kennel. Of course there was nothing
there, Misha told himself. He had simply imagined that Polevoy was looking
for something. He rummaged about under the kennel. Nothing, of course! Only
earth. He would not take it out and look at it even if something was hidden
there; all he wanted was to make sure. His fingers touched something soft
like a piece of cloth. So there was something there, after all. Should he
take it out? Misha looked at the house again, gave the cloth a tug, scraped
away the earth, and pulled out a package.
As he opened the package the steel blade of a dagger flashed in the
sunlight. A dirk! Naval officers carried dirks like that. It had three sharp
edges and no sheath. Coiled round the yellowed bone handle was a small
bronze serpent with open jaws and tongue curled upwards.
It was only an ordinary naval dirk. Why was Polevoy hiding it? Strange.
Very strange-Misha inspected the dirk again, then wrapped it in the cloth,