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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. Tchi-
zhov, Alexey Ivanitch.’
‘Not a doubt about it, it’s Tchizhov,’ a fourth woman em-
phatically 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, snivelling 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 clamour 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

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