Thrusting his hands into his pockets in order not to strike the old man, he straightened himself in his chair and clinching his teeth, said, facing Mayakin closely: "Why are you boasting?
What are you boasting of?
Your own son, where is he?
Your daughter, what is she?
Eh, you--you life-builder! Well, you are clever.

You know everything.

Tell me, what for do you live?
What for are you accumulating money?
Do you think you are not going to die?
Well, what then?
You've captured me.

You've taken hold of me, you've conquered me.

But wait, I may yet tear myself away from you! It isn't the end yet! Eh, you! What have you done for life?
By what will you be remembered?
My father, for instance, donated a lodging-house, and you--what have you done ?" Mayakin's wrinkles quivered and sank downward, wherefore his face assumed a sickly, weeping expression.
"How will you justify yourself ?" asked Foma, softly, without lifting his eyes from him.
"Hold your tongue, you puppy!" said the old man in a low voice, casting a glance of alarm about the room.
"I've said everything! And now I'm going! Hold me back!" Foma rose from his chair, thrust his cap on his head, and measured the old man with abhorrence.
"You may go; but I'll--I'll catch you! It will come out as I say!" said Yakov Tarasovich in a broken voice.
"And I'll go on a spree! I'll squander all!" "Very well, we'll see!" "Goodbye! you hero," Foma laughed.
"Goodbye, for a short while! I'll not go back on my own.