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“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.”
“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.
“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.
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