THE police superintendent Otchumyelov is walking across the market
square wearing a new overcoat and carrying a parcel under his arm.
A red-haired policeman strides after him with a sieve full of
confiscated gooseberries in his hands. There is silence all around.
Not a soul in the square. . . . The open doors of the shops and
taverns look out upon God's world disconsolately, like hungry mouths;
there is not even a beggar near them.
"So you bite, you damned brute?" Otchumyelov hears suddenly. "Lads,
don't let him go! Biting is prohibited nowadays! Hold him! ah . . .
ah!"
There is the sound of a dog yelping. Otchumyelov looks in the
direction of the sound and sees a dog, hopping on three legs and
looking about her, run out of Pitchugin's timber-yard. A man in a
starched cotton shirt, with his waistcoat unbuttoned, is chasing
her. He runs after her, and throwing his body forward falls down
and seizes the dog by her hind legs. Once more there is a yelping
and a shout of "Don't let go!" Sleepy countenances are protruded
from the shops, and soon a crowd, which seems to have sprung out
of the earth, is gathered round the timber-yard.
"It looks like a row, your honour . . ." says the policeman.
Otchumyelov makes a half turn to the left and strides towards the
crowd.
He sees the aforementioned man in the unbuttoned waistcoat standing
close by the gate of the timber-yard, holding his right hand in the
air and displaying a bleeding finger to the crowd. On his half-drunken
face there is plainly written: "I'll pay you out, you rogue!" and
indeed the very finger has the look of a flag of victory. In this
man Otchumyelov recognises Hryukin, the goldsmith. The culprit who
has caused the sensation, a white borzoy puppy with a sharp muzzle
and a yellow patch on her back, is sitting on the ground with her
fore-paws outstretched in the middle of the crowd, trembling all
over. There is an expression of misery and terror in her tearful
eyes.
"What's it all about?" Otchumyelov inquires, pushing his way through
the crowd. "What are you here for? Why are you waving your finger
. . . ? Who was it shouted?"
"I was walking along here, not interfering with anyone, your honour,"
Hryukin begins, coughing into his fist. "I was talking about firewood
to Mitry Mitritch, when this low brute for no rhyme or reason bit
my finger. . . . You must excuse me, I am a working man. . . . Mine
is fine work. I must have damages, for I shan't be able to use this
finger for a week, may be. . . . It's not even the law, your honour,
that one should put up with it from a beast. . . . If everyone is
going to be bitten, life won't be worth living. . . ."
"H'm. Very good," says Otchumyelov sternly, coughing and raising
his eyebrows. "Very good. Whose dog is it? I won't let this pass!
I'll teach them to let their dogs run all over the place! It's time
these gentry were looked after, if they won't obey the regulations!
When he's fined, the blackguard, I'll teach him what it means to
keep dogs and such stray cattle! I'll give him a lesson! . . .
Yeldyrin," cries the superintendent, addressing the policeman, "find
out whose dog this is and draw up a report! And the dog must be
strangled. Without delay! It's sure to be mad. . . . Whose dog is
it, I ask?"
"I fancy it's General Zhigalov's," says someone in the crowd.
"General Zhigalov's, h'm. . . . Help me off with my coat, Yeldyrin
. . . it's frightfully hot! It must be a sign of rain. . . . There's
one thing I can't make out, how it came to bite you?" Otchumyelov
turns to Hryukin. "Surely it couldn't reach your finger. It's a
little dog, and you are a great hulking fellow! You must have
scratched your finger with a nail, and then the idea struck you to
get damages for it. We all know . . . your sort! I know you devils!"
"He put a cigarette in her face, your honour, for a joke, and she
had the sense to snap at him. . . . He is a nonsensical fellow,
your honour!"
"That's a lie, Squinteye! You didn't see, so why tell lies about
it? His honour is a wise gentleman, and will see who is telling
lies and who is telling the truth, as in God's sight. . . . And if
I am lying let the court decide. It's written in the law. . . . We
are all equal nowadays. My own brother is in the gendarmes . . .
let me tell you. . . ."
"Don't argue!"
"No, that's not the General's dog," says the policeman, with profound
conviction, "the General hasn't got one like that. His are mostly
setters."
"Do you know that for a fact?"
"Yes, your honour."
"I know it, too. The General has valuable dogs, thoroughbred, and
this is goodness knows what! No coat, no shape. . . . A low creature.
And to keep a dog like that! . . . where's the sense of it. If a
dog like that were to turn up in Petersburg or Moscow, do you know
what would happen? They would not worry about the law, they would
strangle it in a twinkling! You've been injured, Hryukin, and we
can't let the matter drop. . . . We must give them a lesson! It is
high time . . . . !"
"Yet maybe it is the General's," says the policeman, thinking aloud.
"It's not written on its face. . . . I saw one like it the other
day in his yard."
"It is the General's, that's certain!" says a voice in the crowd.
"H'm, help me on with my overcoat, Yeldyrin, my lad . . . the wind's
getting up. . . . I am cold. . . . You take it to the General's,
and inquire there. Say I found it and sent it. And tell them not
to let it out into the street. . . . It may be a valuable dog, and
if every swine goes sticking a cigar in its mouth, it will soon be
ruined. A dog is a delicate animal. . . . And you put your hand
down, you blockhead. It's no use your displaying your fool of a
finger. It's your own fault. . . ."
"Here comes the General's cook, ask him. . . Hi, Prohor! Come here,
my dear man! Look at this dog. . . . Is it one of yours?"
"What an idea! We have never had one like that!"
"There's no need to waste time asking," says Otchumyelov. "It's a
stray dog! There's no need to waste time talking about it. . . .
Since he says it's a stray dog, a stray dog it is. . . . It must
be destroyed, that's all about it."
"It is not our dog," Prohor goes on. "It belongs to the General's
brother, who arrived the other day. Our master does not care for
hounds. But his honour is fond of them. . . ."
"You don't say his Excellency's brother is here? Vladimir Ivanitch?"
inquires Otchumyelov, and his whole face beams with an ecstatic
smile. "'Well, I never! And I didn't know! Has he come on a visit?
"Yes."
"Well, I never. . . . He couldn't stay away from his brother. . . .
And there I didn't know! So this is his honour's dog? Delighted
to hear it. . . . Take it. It's not a bad pup. . . . A lively
creature. . . . Snapped at this fellow's finger! Ha-ha-ha. . . .
Come, why are you shivering? Rrr . . . Rrrr. . . . The rogue's angry
. . . a nice little pup."
Prohor calls the dog, and walks away from the timber-yard with her.
The crowd laughs at Hryukin.
"I'll make you smart yet!" Otchumyelov threatens him, and wrapping
himself in his greatcoat, goes on his way across the square.