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"Yes, take him," the man went on more confidently. "Why was he

going into that, what's in his mind, eh?"

"He's not drunk, but God knows what's the matter with him,"

muttered the workman.

"But what do you want?" the porter shouted again, beginning to

get angry in earnest--"Why are you hanging about?"

"You funk the police station then?" said Raskolnikov jeeringly.

"How funk it? Why are you hanging about?"

"He's a rogue!" shouted the peasant woman.

"Why waste time talking to him?" cried the other porter, a huge

peasant in a full open coat and with keys on his belt. "Get

along! He is a rogue and no mistake. Get along!"

And seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder he flung him into the

street. He lurched forward, but recovered his footing, looked at

the spectators in silence and walked away.

"Strange man!" observed the workman.

"There are strange folks about nowadays," said the woman.

"You should have taken him to the police station all the same,"

said the man in the long coat.