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

put it back under the kennel, covered it with earth, and returned to the
porch.
The gates of neighbouring yards were thrown open with a clatter and the
cows, their tails swishing, lumbered out importantly to join a passing herd.
They were followed by a boy who wore a long ragged coat that came down to
his bare heels and a sheepskin cap. He was shouting at the cows and deftly
cracking a whip that trailed after him in the dust like a snake.
Misha thought of the dirk as he sat on the porch making the catapult.
It was an ordinary one, except for the small bronze serpent. But what was
Polevoy hiding it for?
He finished the catapult. It was better than Genka's, he was sure, and,
to try it, he picked up a stone and let it fly at some sparrows hopping in
the street. The stone missed the target. The sparrows flew off and alighted
on the neighbouring fence. Misha wanted to try another shot but was stopped
by the sound of steps in the house, the grating of the damper, and the
splashing of water in the tub. He hid the catapult under his shirt and went
into the kitchen.
Grandmother was moving large baskets of cherries that stood on a bench.
She was wearing a greasy dressing-gown, the pockets weighed down with keys.
Her plump face was careworn and furrowed with wrinkles, and near-sightedness
made her blink her small, slightly squinting eyes.
"Take your hands off!" she exclaimed when Misha put his hand into a
basket. "The idea... with dirty paws!"
"Stingy!" Misha grumbled.
"You can have some later. Go and wash yourself first."
Misha went to the sink; he wetted his palms under the tap, touched the
tip of his nose, slid his hands across the towel, and went to the
dining-room.
Grandfather was already there, sitting in his customary seat "at the
head of the long table covered with a brown oilcloth with a flowered
pattern. He was a grey-haired old man with a thin beard and a reddish
moustache, and when Misha came in he was using his thumb to carry a pinch of
tobacco to his nostrils and sneezing into a yellow handkerchief. There was
laughter in his lively eyes, set in kindly beaming wrinkles, and from his
jacket came a mild, pleasant smell, that was exclusively his own.
Breakfast had not yet been served, and to while away the time Misha
pushed his plate into the middle of a rose in the pattern of the oilcloth
and with his fork traced a ring round it.
A deep scratch appeared on the oilcloth.
"My respects to Mikhail Grigoryevich!" Polevoy's merry voice boomed
behind Misha.
Polevoy came out of his room with a towel tied round his waist.
"Good morning, Sergei Ivanovich," Misha replied with a sly look at
Polevoy: he would never guess that Misha knew about the dirk!
Misha covered the scratch with his elbows when Grandmother carried the
samovar into the room.
"Where's Senya?" Grandfather asked.
"In the store-room," Grandmother replied. "Took it into his head to
repair his bicycle at this unearthly hour!"
Misha started at these words and took his elbows off the table,