“Those whose business it is don’t care. Is it right to do men to death like this? A convict is a convict, but still he is a man,” different voices were heard saying in the crowd.
“Put his head up higher, and give him some water,” said Nekhludoff.
“Water has been sent for,” said the policeman, and taking the prisoner under the arms he with difficulty pulled his body a little higher up.
“What’s this gathering here?” said a decided, authoritative voice, and a police officer, with a wonderfully clean, shiny blouse, and still more shiny top-boots, came up to the assembled crowd.
“Move on. No standing about here,” he shouted to the crowd, before he knew what had attracted it.
When he came near and saw the dying convict, he made a sign of approval with his head, just as if he had quite expected it, and, turning to the policeman, said, “How is this?”
The policeman said that, as a gang of prisoners was passing, one of the convicts had fallen down, and the convoy officer had ordered him to be left behind.
“Well, that’s all right. He must be taken to the police station. Call an isvostchik.”
“A porter has gone for one,” said the policeman, with his fingers raised to his cap.
The shopman began something about the heat.