The trolley travelled at twenty
versts an hour, but the wheels squeaked. It reached Semyon's hut, and
he ran out and reported in soldierly fashion. All appeared to be in
repair.
"Have you been here long?" inquired the Chief.
"Since the second of May, your Excellency."
"All right. Thank you. And who is at hut No. 164?"
The traffic inspector (he was travelling with the Chief on the
trolley) replied: "Vasily Spiridov."
"Spiridov, Spiridov... Ah! is he the man against whom you made a note
last year?"
"He is."
"Well, we will see Vasily Spiridov. Go on!" The workmen laid to the
handles, and the trolley got under way. Semyon watched it, and
thought, "There will be trouble between them and my neighbour."
About two hours later he started on his round. He saw some one coming
along the line from the cutting. Something white showed on his head.
Semyon began to look more attentively. It was Vasily. He had a stick
in his hand, a small bundle on his shoulder, and his cheek was bound
up in a handkerchief.
"Where are you off to?" cried Semyon.
Vasily came quite close. He was very pale, white as chalk, and his
eyes had a wild look.
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