around.
Not a soul in the square. . . . The open doors of the shops and
taverns look out upon God's world disconsolately, like hungry mouths;
there is not even a beggar near them.

"So you bite, you damned brute?" Otchumyelov hears suddenly. "Lads,
don't let him go! Biting is prohibited nowadays! Hold him! ah . . .
ah!"

There is the sound of a dog yelping. Otchumyelov looks in the
direction of the sound and sees a dog, hopping on three legs and
looking about her, run out of Pitchugin's timber-yard. A man in a
starched cotton shirt, with his waistcoat unbuttoned, is chasing
her. He runs after her, and throwing his body forward falls down
and seizes the dog by her hind legs. Once more there is a yelping
and a shout of "Don't let go!" Sleepy countenances are protruded
from the shops, and soon a crowd, which seems to have sprung out
of the earth, is gathered round the timber-yard.

"It looks like a row, your honour . . ." says the policeman.

Otchumyelov makes a half turn to the left and strides towards the
crowd.

He sees the aforementioned man in the unbuttoned waistcoat standing
close by the gate of the timber-yard, holding his right hand in the
air and displaying a bleeding finger to the crowd. On his half-drunken
face there is plainly written: "I'll pay you out, you rogue!" and
indeed the very finger has the look of a flag of victory. In this
man Otchumyelov recognises Hryukin, the goldsmith. The culprit who
has caused the sensation, a white borzoy puppy with a sharp muzzle
and a yellow patch on her back, is sitting on the ground with her
fore-paws outstretched in the middle of the crowd, trembling all
over. There is an expression of misery and terror in her tearful
eyes.

"What's it all about?" Otchumyelov inquires, pushing his way through
the crowd. "What are you here for? Why are you waving your finger
. . . ? Who was it shouted?"

"I was walking along here, not interfering with anyone, your honour,"
Hryukin begins, coughing into his fist. "I was talking about firewood
to Mitry Mitritch, when this low brute for no rhyme or reason bit
my finger. . . . You must excuse me, I am a working man. . . . Mine
is fine work. I must have damages, for I shan't be able to use this
finger for a week, may be. . . . It's not even the law, your honour,
that one should put up with it from a beast. . . . If everyone is
going to be bitten, life won't be worth living. . . ."

"H'm. Very good," says Otchumyelov sternly, cough