times, gave him a violent lash on the back with his whip, for having almost fallen under his horses’ hoofs. The lash so infuriated him that he dashed away to the railing (for some unknown reason he had been walking in the very middle of the bridge in the traffic). He angrily clenched and ground his teeth. He heard laughter, of course.
“Serves him right!”
“A pickpocket I dare say.”
“Pretending to be drunk, for sure, and getting under the wheels on purpose; and you have to answer for him.”
“It’s a regular profession, that’s what it is.”
But while he stood at the railing, still looking angry and bewildered after the retreating carriage, and rubbing his back, he suddenly felt someone thrust money into his hand.
He looked. It was an elderly woman in a kerchief and goatskin shoes, with a girl, probably her daughter, wearing a hat, and carrying a green parasol.
“Take it, my good man, in Christ’s name.”
He took it and they passed on. It was a piece of twenty kopecks. From his dress and appearance they might well have taken him for a beggar asking alms in the streets, and the gift of the twenty kopecks he doubtless owed to the blow, which made them feel sorry for him.
He closed his hand on the twenty kopecks, walked on for ten paces, and turned facing the Neva, looking towards the palace.