“Look, mother — a sparrow!”
“Don't talk, child, don't talk!”
At a little window appeared the feldscher's sleepy face. “Come and give your names.”
The waiting patients, among them the funny, hopping boy, crowded round the window. Of each the feldscher asked name and patronymic, age, village, dates of illness, and other questions. From his mother's answer, Pashka learnt that his name was Pavl Galaktionoff, that he was seven years old, and that he had been ill since Easter.
When the names were entered there was another short delay; and then through the waiting-room walked the doctor, in white apron, with a towel on his shoulder. As he passed the hopping boy, he shrugged his shoulders, and said in a sing-song voice —
“You're a donkey! Now aren't you a donkey? I told you Monday, and you come on Friday! Don't worry yourself so far as I'm concerned, but if you're not careful, fool, you'll lose your leg!”
The hopping boy blinked, grimaced piteously as if asking for alms, and began —
“Ivan Nikolaitch, be so kind . . .”
“None of your Ivan Nikolaitch!” said the doctor teasingly. “I told you Monday — you should obey! You're a donkey, that's all.”
The reception began. The doctor sat in his room,
