"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, coughing and raising his eyebrows.

"Very good. Whose dog is it? I won't let this pass! I'll teach them to let their dogs run all over the place!

It's time these gentry were looked after, if they won't obey the regulations!

When he's fined, the blackguard, I'll teach him what it means to keep dogs and such stray cattle!