"
The police commissioner stood before him, his mustached upper lip
twitching. Then he drew back a step, and with a whistling voice
sang out in surprise:
"Um! you damned scoundrel! Wha-at? What do you mean by your words?
People, you say? A-a----"
Suddenly he dealt Rybin a quick, sharp blow in the face.
"You won't kill the truth with your fist!" shouted Rybin, drawing
on him. "And you have no right to beat me, you dog!"
"I won't dare, I suppose?" the police commissioner drawled.
Again he waved his hand, aiming at Rybin's head; Rybin ducked;
the blow missed, and the police commissioner almost toppled over.
Some one in the crowd gave a jeering snort, and the angry shout
of Mikhail was heard:
"Don't you dare to beat me, I say, you infernal devil! I'm no
weaker than you! Look out!"
The police commissioner looked around. The people shut down on him
in a narrower circle, advancing sullenly.
"Nikita!" the police commissioner called out, looking around.
"Nikita, hey!" A squat peasant in a short fur overcoat emerged
from the crowd. He looked on the ground, with his large disheveled
head drooping.
"Nikita," the police commissioner said deliberately, twirling his
mustache, "give him a box on the ear--a good one!"
The peasant stepped forward, stopped in front of Rybin and raised his
hand.
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