“Well then you can go to the devil,” said Kolya, cutting short the conversation; and turning sharply to the right he strode quickly on his way as though he disdained further conversation with a dolt who did not even know Sabaneyev.
“Stop, heigh! What Sabaneyev?” the young man recovered from his momentary stupefaction and was as excited as before. “What did he say?” He turned to the market women with a silly stare.
The women laughed.
“You can never tell what he’s after,” said one of them.
“What Sabaneyev is it he’s talking about?” the young man repeated, still furious and brandishing his right arm.
“It must be a Sabaneyev who worked for the Kuzmitchovs, that’s who it must be,” one of the women suggested.
The young man stared at her wildly.
“For the Kuzmitchovs?” repeated another woman. “But his name wasn’t Trifon. His name’s Kuzma, not Trifon; but the boy said Trifon Nikititch, so it can’t be the same.”
“His name is not Trifon and not Sabaneyev, it’s Tchizhov,” put in suddenly a third woman, who had hitherto been silent, listening gravely. “Alexey Ivanitch is his name. Tchizhov, Alexey Ivanitch.”
“Not a doubt about it, it’s Tchizhov,” a fourth woman emphatically confirmed the statement.