“All right. Thank you. And who is at hut No. 164?”
The traffic inspector (he was travelling with the Chief on the trolley) replied: “Vasily Spiridov.”
“Spiridov, Spiridov... Ah! is he the man against whom you made a note last year?”
“He is.”
“Well, we will see Vasily Spiridov. Go on!” The workmen laid to the handles, and the trolley got under way. Semyon watched it, and thought, “There will be trouble between them and my neighbour.”
About two hours later he started on his round. He saw some one coming along the line from the cutting. Something white showed on his head. Semyon began to look more attentively. It was Vasily. He had a stick in his hand, a small bundle on his shoulder, and his cheek was bound up in a handkerchief.
“Where are you off to?” cried Semyon.
Vasily came quite close. He was very pale, white as chalk, and his eyes had a wild look. Almost choking, he muttered: “To town—to Moscow—to the head office.”
“Head office? Ah, you are going to complain, I suppose. Give it up! Vasily Stepanych, forget it.”
“No, mate, I will not forget. It is too late. See! He struck me in the face, drew blood. So long as I live I will not forget. I will not leave it like this!”