stones with careful aim into the pond.
But now Trezorka, Fyodor Filippitch’s dog, comes running downhill from the house, barking and looking round in perplexity; and the figure of Fyodor himself, running down the hill and shouting something, comes into sight behind the thicket of wild rose.
“Why are you standing still?” he shouts, taking off his coat as he runs. “A man’s drowning, and they do nothing. … Give us a cord!”
All gaze in hope and dread at Fyodor Filippitch, while leaning on the shoulder of an obliging house-serf he kicks off his right boot with the tip of his left one.
“Over there, where the crowd is; over there, a little to the right of the willow, Fyodor Filippitch, over there,” says someone.
“I know,” he answers, and knitting his brows, probably in acknowledgment of symptoms of outraged delicacy in the crowd of women, he takes off his shirt and his cross, handing the latter to the gardener’s boy, who stands obsequiously before him. Then stepping vigorously over the mown grass, he goes to the pond.