his bed, and waited for the doctor to come and catch thrushes or drive to the fair. But the doctor tarried. At the door of the next ward the feldscher stood for a moment. He bent over the patient with the ice-bag, and cried—
“Mikhailo!”
But sleeping Mikhailo did not hear. The feldscher waved his hand, and went away. While waiting for the doctor, Pashka looked at his neighbour. The old man continued to cough, and spit into the bowl, and his cough was drawn-out and wheezy. But one thing pleased Pashka intensely. When the old man, having coughed, inhaled a breath, something whistled in his chest, and sang in different notes.
“Grandfather, what is that whistling in your inside?” asked Pashka.
The old man did not answer. Pashka waited a minute, and began again.
“Grandfather, where is the fox?”
“What fox?”
“The live one.”
“Where should it be? In the wood, of course.”
The hours slipped by, but no doctor came. At last the nurse brought Pashka's tea, and scolded him for having eaten the bread; the feldscher returned and tried to waken Mikhailo; the lamps were lighted; but still no doctor. It was already too late to drive to the fair or catch thrushes. Pashka stretched himself on
