But Alyosha did not have a chance to think for long: on the way something suddenly happened to him that, while it did not seem very important, greatly struck him. As soon as he had crossed the square and turned down the lane leading to Mikhailovsky Street, which runs parallel to Main Street but is separated from it by a ditch (the whole town is crisscrossed by ditches), he saw down at the foot of the little bridge a small gang of schoolboys, all young children, from nine to twelve years old, not more. They were going home from school with satchels on their backs, or with leather bags on straps over their shoulders, some wearing jackets, others coats, some even in high leather boots creased around the ankles, in which little boys spoiled by their well-to-do fathers especially like to parade around. The whole group was talking animatedly about something, apparently holding a council. Alyosha could never pass children by with indifference; it had been the same when he was in Moscow, and though he loved children of three or so most of all, he also very much liked tenor eleven-year-old schoolboys. And so, preoccupied though he was at the moment, he suddenly felt like going over and talking with them. As he came up, he peered into their rosy, animated faces and suddenly saw that each boy had a stone in his hand, and some had two. Across the ditch, about thirty paces away from the group, near a fence, stood another boy, also a schoolboy with a bag at his side, no more than ten years old, or even less, judging by his height—pale, sickly, with flashing black eyes. He was attentively and keenly watching the group of six schoolboys, obviously his comrades who had just left school with him but with whom he was apparently at odds. Alyosha came up and, addressing one curly, blond, ruddy-cheeked boy in a black jacket, looked him up and down and remarked:
“I used to carry a bag just like yours, but we always wore it on the left side, so that you could get to it quickly with your right hand; if you wear yours on the right like that, it won’t be so easy to get to.”
Alyosha began with this practical remark, without any premeditated guile, which, incidentally, is the only way for an adult to begin if he wants to gain the immediate confidence of a child, and especially of a whole group of children. One must begin precisely in a serious and practical way so as to be altogether on an equal footing. Alyosha instinctively understood this.
“But he’s left-handed,” another boy, a cocky and healthy eleven-year-old, answered at once. The other five boys all fixed their eyes on Alyosha.
“He throws stones with his left hand, too,” remarked a third. Just then a stone flew into the group, grazed the left-handed boy, and flew by, though it was thrown deftly and forcefully. The boy across the ditch had thrown it.
“Go on, Smurov, give it to him!” they all shouted. But Smurov (the left-handed boy) did not need any encouragement; he retaliated at once and threw a stone at the boy across the ditch, but unsuccessfully. It landed in the dirt. The boy across the ditch immediately threw another stone at the group, this time directly at Alyosha, and hit him rather painfully on the shoulder. The boy across the ditch had a whole pocket full of stones ready. The bulging of his pockets could be seen even from thirty paces away.
“He was aiming at you, he did it on purpose. You’re Karamazov, Karamazov, aren’t you?” the boys shouted, laughing. “Hey, everybody, fire at once!”
And six stones shot out of the group. One caught the boy on the head and he fell, but he jumped up immediately and in a rage began flinging stones back at them. A steady exchange of fire came from both sides, and many in the group turned out to have stones ready in their pockets.
“What are you doing! Aren’t you ashamed, gentlemen? Six against one! Why, you’ll kill him!” Alyosha cried.
He leaped forward and faced the flying stones, trying to shield the boy across the ditch with himself. Three or four of them stopped for a moment.
“He started it!” a boy in a red shirt cried in an angry child’s voice. “He’s a scoundrel, he just stabbed Krasotkin in class with a penknife, he was bleeding. Only Krasotkin didn’t want to squeal on him, but he needs to get beaten up...”
“But why? I’ll bet you tease him.”
“Look, he threw another stone at your back! He knows who you are!” the boys shouted. “It’s you he’s throwing at now, not us. Hey, everybody, at him again! Don’t miss, Smurov!”
And another exchange of fire began, this time a very savage one. The boy across the ditch was hit in the chest by a stone; he cried out, burst into tears, and ran up the hill towards Mikhailovsky Street. A clamor came from the group: “Aha, coward! He ran away! Whiskbroom!”
“You still don’t know what a scoundrel he is, Karamazov. Killing’s too good for him,” a boy in a jacket, who seemed to be the oldest of them, repeated with burning eyes.
“What’s wrong with him?” asked Alyosha. “Is he a squealer?”
