“But the work is useless.”
“It can’t be useless, or why should it be done?” said the isvostchik. “The people get bread by it.”
Nekhludoff was silent, and it would have been difficult to talk because of the clatter the wheels made.
When they came nearer the prison, and the isvostchik turned off the paved on to the macadamised road, it became easier to talk, and he again turned to Nekhludoff.
“And what a lot of these people are flocking to the town nowadays; it’s awful,” he said, turning round on the box and pointing to a party of peasant workmen who were coming towards them, carrying saws, axes, sheepskins, coats, and bags strapped to their shoulders.
“More than in other years?” Nekhludoff asked.
“By far. This year every place is crowded, so that it’s just terrible. The employers just fling the workmen about like chaff. Not a job to be got.”
“Why is that?”
“They’ve increased. There’s no room for them.”
“Well, what if they have increased? Why do not they stay in the village?”