s?" repeated another woman. "But his name wasn't
Trifon. His name's Kuzma, not Trifon; but the boy said Trifon Nikititch,
so it can't be the same."

"His name is not Trifon and not Sabaneyev, it's Tchizhov," put in suddenly
a third woman, who had hitherto been silent, listening gravely. "Alexey
Ivanitch is his name. Tchizhov, Alexey Ivanitch."

"Not a doubt about it, it's Tchizhov," a fourth woman emphatically
confirmed the statement.

The bewildered youth gazed from one to another.

"But what did he ask for, what did he ask for, good people?" he cried
almost in desperation. " 'Do you know Sabaneyev?' says he. And who the
devil's to know who is Sabaneyev?"

"You're a senseless fellow. I tell you it's not Sabaneyev, but Tchizhov,
Alexey Ivanitch Tchizhov, that's who it is!" one of the women shouted at
him impressively.

"What Tchizhov? Who is he? Tell me, if you know."

"That tall, sniveling fellow who used to sit in the market in the summer."

"And what's your Tchizhov to do with me, good people, eh?"

"How can I tell what he's to do with you?" put in another. "You ought to
know yourself what you want with him, if you make such a clamor about him.
He spoke to you, he did not speak to us, you stupid. Don't you really know
him?"

"Know whom?"

"Tchizhov."

"The devil take Tchizhov and you with him. I'll give him a hiding, that I
will. He was laughing at me!"

"Will give Tchizhov a hiding! More likely he will give you one. You are a
fool, that's what you are!"

"Not Tchizhov, not Tchizhov, you spiteful, mischievous woman. I'll give
the boy a hiding. Catch him, catch him, he was laughing at me!"

The woman guffawed. But Kolya was by now a long way off, marching along
with a triumphant air. Smurov walked beside him, looking round at the
shouting group far behind. He too was in high spirits, though he was still
afraid of getting into some scrape in Kolya's company.

"What Sabaneyev did you mean?" he asked Kolya, foreseeing what his answer
would be.

"How do I know? Now there'll be a hubbub among them all day. I like to
stir up fools in every class of society. There's another blockhead, that
peasant there. You know, they say 'there's no one stupider than a stupid
Frenchman,' but a stupid Russian shows it in his face just as much. Can't
you see it all over his face that he is a fool, that peasant, eh?"

"Let him alone, Kolya. Let's go on."

"Nothing could stop me, now I am once off. Hey, good morning, pe