"
The mother, drawing the boy to her, put his head on her bosom in
order to muffle his voice. It was not necessary, however, for he
suddenly grew heavy and silent. In awful fear, she looked about
sidewise out of the corners of her eyes. She felt that the policemen
would issue from some corner, would see Ivan's bandaged head, would
seize him and kill him.
"Been drinking?" asked the driver, turning on the box with a
benignant smile.
"Pretty full."
"Your son?"
"Yes, a shoemaker. I'm a cook."
Shaking the whip over the horse, the driver again turned, and
continued in a lowered voice:
"I heard there was a row in the cemetery just now. You see, they
were burying one of the politicals, one of those who are against the
authorities. They have a crow to pick with the authorities. He was
buried by fellows like him, his friends, it must be; and they up and
begin to shout: 'Down with the authorities! They ruin the people.'
The police began to beat them. It's said some were hewed down and
killed. But the police got it, too." He was silent, shaking his
head as if afflicted by some sorrow, and uttered in a strange voice:
"They don't even let the dead alone; they even bother people in
their graves.
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