"Ladygin, you and your five can go," said Timur. "What's your next assignment?"
"No. 22, Bolshaya Vasilkovskaya—stack the logs."
"Fine.
Get to work!"
A whistle blew at the station nearby.
A suburban train had pulled in and the passengers would soon be coming from the station. Timur began to hurry.
"Simakov, you and your five—what's yours?"
"No. 38, Malaya Petrakovskaya." He added with a laugh, "Same as usual: buckets, barrel and water.
S'long!"
"Fine, get to work!
Well, and now . . . people are coming this way.
The rest can go home. Quick now!"
As the new arrivals began to trickle into the square an infernal clatter broke out. They stopped in alarm.
Another outburst of banging and yelling followed.
Lights went on in the windows of neighbouring houses.
Somebody switched on the light over the market stalls, and the crowd saw the following notice hanging on the booth:
PASSERS-BY, DON'T BE SORRY FOR THEM!
Inside are people who sneak into the gardens of peaceful residents at night and steal apples and things.
The key to the padlock is behind this notice. The person who releases the prisoners is warned first to make sure he has no relatives or friends among them.
It is late at night and the black-bordered red star on the gate is invisible.
But it is there.
Once again, the scene is the garden of the house where the little girl lives.
Two ropes are let down from a branch of a tree.
A boy climbs down the rough trunk, fastens a board to the ropes and sits on it to see whether the new swing—for swing it is—is strong enough.
The stout branch creaks a bit, the leaves rustle and stir.
A bird, disturbed from its slumbers, twitters and flaps its wings.
It is quite late.
Olga has gone to bed long ago.
Jenny is asleep, and so are the boy's comrades: the jolly Simakov, the taciturn Ladygin, funny little Nick.
Brave Geika is tossing about in his bed and mumbling in his sleep.
The clock in the watch-tower strikes the quarter hour:
"A day's passed—a deed's done!
Ding-dong! One, two!"
Yes, it is quite late.
The boy gets off the swing, searches in the grass and picks up a heavy bouquet of wild flowers.
Jenny had gathered them.
He tiptoes softly up the steps of the moonlit porch so as not to wake and frighten the sleepers, and places the bouquet carefully on the top step.
The boy is Timur.
It was Sunday morning.
The Young Communist League had arranged a grand carnival and concert in the park to celebrate the anniversary of the victory of the Red Army at Lake Hassan in the Far East.
The girls had run off to the carnival grounds early in the morning.
Olga quickly ironed her blouse and then took stock of the wardrobe.
When she shook out Jenny's sun-dress a slip of paper fell out of the pocket.
Olga picked it up and read:
"No need to be afraid of anyone at home.
Everything's fine and I won't tell.
Timur."
What wouldn't he tell?
What didn't she need to be afraid of?
What sort of a secret was that sly, close child hiding from her?