Page 694 - the-brothers-karamazov

plain. The village of Mokroe numbered two thousand in-
habitants, but at that hour all were asleep, and only here and
there a few lights still twinkled.
‘Drive on, Andrey, I come!’ Mitya exclaimed, feverishly.
‘They’re not asleep,’ said Andrey again, pointing with his
whip to the Plastunovs’ inn, which was at the entrance to
the village. The six windows, looking on the street, were all
brightly lighted up.
‘They’re not asleep,’ Mitya repeated joyously. ‘Quicker,
Andrey! Gallop! Drive up with a dash! Set the bells ring-
ing! Let all know that I have come. I’m coming! I’m coming,
too!’
Andrey lashed his exhausted team into a gallop, drove
with a dash and pulled up his steaming, panting horses at
the high flight of steps.
Mitya jumped out of the cart just as the innkeeper, on
his way to bed, peeped out from the steps curious to see
who had arrived.
‘Trifon Borissovitch, is that you?’
The innkeeper bent down, looked intently, ran down the
steps, and rushed up to the guest with obsequious delight.
‘Dmitri Fyodorovitch, your honour! Do I see you again?’
Trifon Borissovitch was a thick-set, healthy peasant, of
middle height, with a rather fat face. His expression was se-
vere and uncompromising, especially with the peasants of
Mokroe, but he had the power of assuming the most obse-
quious countenance, when he had an inkling that it was to
his interest. He dressed in Russian style, with a shirt but-
toning down on one side, and a full-skirted coat. He had