he got in. At the gates there was a crowd of people, peasants, women and drivers. Trifon Borissovitch came down the steps too. All stared at Mitya.
“Forgive me at parting, good people!” Mitya shouted suddenly from the cart.
“Forgive us too!” he heard two or three voices.
“Goodbye to you, too, Trifon Borissovitch!”
But Trifon Borissovitch did not even turn round. He was, perhaps, too busy. He, too, was shouting and fussing about something.
It appeared that everything was not yet ready in the second cart, in which two constables were to accompany Mavriky Mavrikyevitch.
The peasant who had been ordered to drive the second cart was pulling on his smock, stoutly maintaining that it was not his turn to go, but Akim’s. But Akim was not to be seen. They ran to look for him. The peasant persisted and besought them to wait.
“You