“What Sabaneyev is it he’s talking about?” the young man repeated, still furious and brandishing his right arm.
“It must be a Sabaneyev who worked for the Kuzmitchovs, that’s who it must be,” one of the women suggested.
The young man stared at her wildly.
“For the Kuzmitchovs?” repeated another woman. “But his name wasn’t Trifon. His name’s Kuzma, not Trifon; but the boy said Trifon Nikititch, so it can’t be the same.”
“His name is not Trifon and not Sabaneyev, it’s Tchizhov,” put in suddenly a third woman, who had hitherto been silent, listening gravely. “Alexey Ivanitch is his name. Tchizhov, Alexey Ivanitch.”
“Not a doubt about it, it’s Tchizhov,” a fourth woman emphatically confirmed the statement.
The bewildered youth gazed from one to another.
“But what did he ask for, what did he ask for, good people?” he cried almost in desperation. “