“That’s a lie, Squinteye! You didn’t see, so why tell lies about it? His honour is a wise gentleman, and will see who is telling lies and who is telling the truth, as in God’s sight. … And if I am lying let the court decide. It’s written in the law. … We are all equal nowadays. My own brother is in the gendarmes … let me tell you. …”

“Don’t argue!”

“No, that’s not the General’s dog,” says the policeman, with pro-found conviction, “the General hasn’t got one like that. His are mostly setters.”

“Do you know that for a fact?”

“Yes, your honour.”

“I know it, too. The General has valuable dogs, thoroughbred, and this is goodness knows what! No coat, no shape. … A low creature. … And to keep a dog like that!. … where’s the sense of it. If a dog like that were to turn up in Petersburg or Moscow, do you know what would happen? They would not worry about the law, they would strangle it in a twinkling! You’ve been injured, Hryukin, and we can’t let the matter drop. … We must give them a lesson! It is high time. …!”

“Yet maybe it is the General’s,” says the policeman, thinking aloud. “It’s not written on its face. … I saw one like it the other day in his yard.”

“It is the General’s, that’s certain!” says a voice in the crowd.

“H’m, help me on with my overcoat, Yeldyrin, my lad … the wind’s getting up. … I am cold. … You take it to the General’s, and inquire there. Say I found it and sent it. And tell them not to let it out into the street. … It may be a valuable dog, and if every swine goes sticking a cigar in its mouth, it will soon be ruined. A dog is a delicate animal. … And you put your hand down, you blockhead. It’s no use your displaying your fool of a finger. It’s your own fault. …”

“Here comes the General’s cook, ask him. … Hi, Prohor! Come here, my dear man! Look at this dog. … Is it one of yours?”

“What an idea! We have never had one like that!”

“There’s no need to waste time asking,” says Otchumyelov. “It’s a stray dog! There’s no need to waste time talking about it. … Since he says it’s a stray dog, a stray dog it is. … It must be destroyed, that’s all about it.”

“It is not our dog,” Prohor goes on. “It belongs to the General’s brother, who arrived the other day. Our master does not care for hounds. But his honour is fond of them. …”

“You don’t say his Excellency’s brother is here? Vladimir Ivanitch?” inquires Otchmuyelov, and his whole face beams with an ecstatic smile. “Well, I never! And I didn’t know! Has he come on a visit?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I never. … He couldn’t stay away from his brother. … And there I didn’t know! So this is his honour’s dog? Delighted to hear it. … Take it. It’s not a bad pup. … A lively creature. … Snapped at this fellow’s finger! Ha-ha-ha. … Come, why are you shivering? Rrr … Rrrr. … The rogue’s angry … a nice little pup.”

Prohor calls the dog, and walks away from the timber-yard with her. The crowd laughs at Hryukin.

“I’ll make you smart yet!” Otchumyelov threatens him, and wrapping himself in his greatcoat, goes on his way across the square.