"You won't kill the truth with your fist!" shouted Rybin, drawing on him. "And you have no right to beat me, you dog!"
"I won't dare, I suppose?" the police commissioner drawled.
Again he waved his hand, aiming at Rybin's head; Rybin ducked; the blow missed, and the police commissioner almost toppled over. Some one in the crowd gave a jeering snort, and the angry shout of Mikhaïl was heard:
"Don't you dare to beat me, I say, you infernal devil! I'm no weaker than you! Look out!"
The police commissioner looked around. The people shut down on him in a narrower circle, advancing sullenly.
"Nikita!" the police commissioner called out, looking around. "Nikita, hey!" A squat peasant in a short fur overcoat emerged from the crowd. He looked on the ground, with his large disheveled head drooping.
"Nikita," the police commissioner said deliberately, twirling his mustache, "give him a box on the ear—a good one!"
The peasant stepped forward, stopped in front of Rybin and raised his hand. Staring him straight in the face, Rybin stammered out heavily:
"Now look, people, how the beasts choke you with your own hands! Look! Look! Think! Why does he want to beat me—why? I ask."
The peasant raised his hand and lazily struck Mikhaïl's face.