“Is it your business, eh? Move on,” said the police officer, and looked so severely at him that the clerk was silenced.
“He ought to have a little water,” said Nekhludoff. The police officer looked severely at Nekhludoff also, but said nothing. When the porter brought a mug full of water, he told the policeman to offer some to the convict. The policeman raised the drooping head, and tried to pour a little water down the mouth; but the prisoner could not swallow it, and it ran down his beard, wetting his jacket and his coarse, dirty linen shirt.
“Pour it on his head,” ordered the officer; and the policeman took off the pancake-shaped cap and poured the water over the red curls and bald part of the prisoner’s head. His eyes opened wide as if in fear, but his position remained unchanged.
Streams of dirt trickled down his dusty face, but the mouth continued to gasp in the same regular way, and his whole body shook.
“And what’s this? Take this one,” said the police officer, pointing to Nekhludoff’s isvostchik. “You, there, drive up.”
“I am engaged,” said the isvostchik, dismally, and without looking up.
“It is my isvostchik; but take him. I will pay you,” said Nekhludoff, turning to the isvostchik.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” shouted the officer. “Catch hold.”
The policeman, the porter, and the convoy soldier lifted the dying man and carried him to the trap, and put him on the seat. But he could not sit up; his head fell back, and the whole of his body glided off the seat.
“Make him lie down,” ordered the officer.