at cards. It’s most likely not more than eleven.”
“Quicker, Andrey! Quicker!” Mitya cried again, nervously.
“May I ask you something, sir?” said Andrey, after a pause. “Only I’m afraid of angering you, sir.”
“What is it?”
“Why, Fenya threw herself at your feet just now, and begged you not to harm her mistress, and someone else, too … so you see, sir—It’s I am taking you there … forgive me, sir, it’s my conscience … maybe it’s stupid of me to speak of it—”
Mitya suddenly seized him by the shoulders from behind.
“Are you a driver?” he asked frantically.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you know that one has to make way. What would you say to a driver who wouldn’t make way for anyone, but would just drive on and crush people? No, a driver mustn’t run over people. One