'Looks like trouble, your honour!' says the constable.
Moronoff executes a half-turn to his left and marches towards the throng. He sees that the aforementioned man in the unbuttoned shirt is standing at the yard gatesand with his right hand raised high in the air is showing the crowd a bloodstained finger. His half..:;ozzled face seems to be saying 'You'll pay for this, you scoundrel!' and his very finger has the air of a victory banner. Moronoff recognises the man as Grunkin the goldsmith. On the ground in the midst of the crowd, its front legs splayed out and its whole body trembling, sits the actual cause of the commotion: a white borzoi puppy with a pointed muzzle and a yellow patch on its back. The expression in its watering eyes is one of terror and despair.
'What's all this about?' asks Moronoff, cutting through the crowd. 'Why are you lot here? What's your finger - ? Who shouted just now?'
'I was walking along, your honour, minding me own business . . .' Grunkin begins, giving a slight cough, 'on my way to see Mitry Mitrich about some firewood - when all of a sudden, for no reason, this little tyke goes for my finger . .. Beg pardon, sir, but I'm a man what's working . . . My work's delicate work. I want compensation for this-after all, I may not be able to lift this finger for a week now . . . There's nothing in the law even that says we have tO put up with that from beasts, is there your honour? If we all went round biting, we might as well be dead . . .'
'Hm! All right . . .' says Moronoff sternly, clearing his throat and knitting his brows. 'Right . . . Who owns this dog? I shall not let this matter rest. I'll teach you to let dogs run loose! It's time we took a closer look at these people who won't obey regulations! A good fat fine'll teach the blighter what I think of dogs and suchlike vagrant cattle! I'll take him down a peg! Dildin,' says the inspector, turning to the constable, 'find out who owns this dog, and take a statement! And the dog must be put down. Forthwith! It's probably mad anyway ... Come on then, who's the owner?'
'Looks like General Tartaroff's!' says a voice from the crowd.
'General Tartaroff's? Hm . .. Dildin, remove my coat for me, will you? ... Phew it's hot! We must be in for rain . . . What I don't understand, though, is this: how did it manage to bite you?' says
Moronoff, turning to Grunkin. 'How could it reach up to your finger? A litde dog like that, and a hulking great bloke like you! I expect what happened was, you skinned your finger on a nail, then had thc bright idea of making some money out of it. I know you lot! You devils don't fool me!'
'Hc shoved a fag in its mug for a lark, your honour, but she weren't having any and went for him . . . He's always stirring up trouble, your honour!'
'Don't lie, Boss-Eye! You couldn't see, sowhy tell lies? His honour here's a clever ger.t, he knows who's lying and who's telling the gospel truth . .. And if he thinks I'm lying, then let the justice decide. He's got it all written down there in the law . .. We're all equal now .. . I've got a brother myself who's in the po-lice . . . you may l ike to know -'
'Stop arguing!'
'No, it's not the General's .. .' the constable observes profoundly. 'The General ain't got any like this. His are more setters . ..'
'Are you sure of that?'
'Quite sure, your honour -'
'Well of course I know that, too. The General has dogs that are worth something, thoroughbreds, but this is goodness knows what! It's got no coat, it's nothing tolook at-just a load of rubbish ... Do you seriously think he'd keep a dog like that?! Use your brains. You know what'd happen if a dog like that turned up in Petersburg or Moscow? They wouldn't bother looking in the law books, they'd dispatch him - double quick! You've got a grievance, Grunkin, and you mustn't let the matter rest . . . Teach 'em a lesson! It's high time .. .'
'Could be the General's, though . . .' muses the constable aloud. 'It ain't written on its snout ... I did see one like that in his yard the other day.'
'Course it's the General's!' says a voice from the crowd.
'Hm . .. Help me on with my coat, Dildin old chap . . . There's a bit of a breeze got up ... It's quite chilly . . . Right, take this dog to the General's and ask them there. Say I found it and am sending it back. And tell them not to let it out on the street in future. It may be worth a lot, and if every swine is going to poke cigarettes up its nose, it won't be for much longer. A dog's a delicate creature . . . And you put your hand down, you oaf! Stop showing your stupid finger off! It was all your own fault!'
'Here comes the General's cook, let's .isk him . . . Hcy, Prokhor! Come over hcre a moment, will you? Take a look at this dog . . . One of yours, is it?'
'You must he joking! We've never had none like th.at!'
'Right, wecan stop making enquiries,' says Moronoff. 'It's a stray! We cancut thechat . . .Ifevcryone says it's a stray, it is a stray . . . So that's that, it must he put down.' ,
'No, it's not one of ours,' Prokhor continues. 'It belongs to the General's brother what come down the other day. Our General don't go much on borzois. His brother docs, though —'
'You mean to say his Excellency's brother's arrived? Vladimir lvanych ?' asks Moronoff, his face breaking into an ecstatic smile. 'Well hlow me down! And I didn't know! Come for a little stay, has he?'
'He's on a visit . . .'
'Well l never . . . So he felt like seeing his dear old brother again . . . And fancy me not knowing! So it's his little dog, is it?Jolly good .. . Take him away with you, then . . . He's a good little doggie . . . Pretty quick off the mark, too . . . Took a bite out of this bloke's finger-ha, ha, ha! No need to shiver, little chap! "Grr-rrr" . . . He's angry, the rascal . . . the little scamp . . .'
Prokhor calls the dog over and it follows him out of the woodyard . . . The crowd roars with laughter at Grunkin.
Tll deal with you later!' Moronoff threatens him, and wrapping his greatcoat tightly round him, resumes his progress across the market square.
The Huntsman
It is midday, hot and close. Not a puff of cloud in the sky . . . The sun-parched grass looks at you sullenly, despairingly: even a down- pour won't turn it green now . .. The forest stands there silent and still, as ifgazing somewhere with the tops of its trees, or waiting for something.
Along the edgr of the scrub ambles a tall, narrow-shouldered man of about forty with a lazy, rolling gait and wearing a red shirt, patchedtrousers that were his master's cast-offs, and big boots. He is ambling along the road. To his right is the green of the scrub, to his left a golden sea of ripe rye stretching to the very horizon . . . He is red in the face and sweating. Perched jauntily on his handsome, flaxen head is a small white cap with a stiff jockey peak to it - evidently a present from some young gentleman in a fit of generosity. He has a shooting-bag over his shoulder, with a rumpled black grouse hanging out of it. The man is holding a cocked twelve-bore in his hands and keeping a weather eyeon hisleanold dog, whohas run ahead and is sniffing round the bushes. All is completely quiet, not a sound in the air . . . Every living thing has hidden away from the heat.
'Yegor Vlasych!' the sportsman suddenly hears a soft voice say.
He starts, looks round, and frowns. Right beside him, as though she had just sprung out of the ground, stands a pale-faced peasant woman of about thirty, with a sickle in her hand. She tries to look into his face, and smiles at him bashfully.
'Oh, it's you, Pelageya !' says the sponsman, stopping and slowly uncocking his gun. 'Hm! . . . What brings you to these parts?'
'The girls from our village are working here, so I've come over with them . .. As a labourer, Yegor Vlasych.'
'Uhuh ...' grunts Yegor Vlasych, and slowly continues on his way.
Pelageya follows him. They walk about twenty paces in silence.