one was paying any attention to me, I went to the railing, but not on the side from which David had jumped—­to go there seemed to me terrible—­but to the other side, and looked down into the blue, swollen stream.  I remember noticing by the shore, not far from the bridge, a boat was lying, and in the boat were some people, and one of them, all wet and glistening in the sun, leaned over the side of the boat and pulled something out of the water—­something not very large—­a long, dark thing, which I at first took for a trunk or a basket; but on looking more carefully I made out that this thing was David.  Then I began to tremble:  I cried out as loud as I could, and ran toward the boat, forcing my way through the crowd.  But as I came near I lost my courage and began to look behind me.  Among the people standing about I recognized Trankwillitatin, the cook Agapit with a boot in his hand, Juschka, Wassily.  The wet man was lifting David out of the boat.  Both of David’s hands were raised as high as his face, as if he wanted to protect himself from strangers’ eyes.  He was laid on his back in the mud on the shore.  He did not move.  Perfectly straight, like a soldier on parade, with his heels together and his chest out.  His face had a greenish hue, his eyes were closed, and the water was dripping from his hair.  The man who had pulled him out was, judging from his dress, a mill-hand:  shivering with cold and perpetually brushing his hair from his brow, he began to tell us how he had succeeded.  He spoke slowly and clearly:  “You see, gentlemen, how it was.  As this young man falls from the bridge, well, I run down stream, for I know if he has fallen into the current it will carry him under the bridge; and then I see something—­what is it?—­something like a rough cap is floating down:  it’s his head.  Well, I jump into the water and take hold of him:  there’s nothing remarkable in that.”

I could hear scattered remarks of the crowd.  “You must warm yourself:  we’ll take something hot together,” said some one.

Then some one forces his way to the front—­it is Wassily.  “What are you all doing here?” he cries piteously.  “We must bring him to life.  He’s our young master.”

“Bring him to life! bring him to life!” is heard in the ever-growing crowd.

“We must hold him up by the feet.”

“Hold him up by the feet!  That’s the best thing.”

“And roll him up and down on a barrel until—–­Here, take hold of him.”

“Don’t touch him,” the sentinel interrupts:  “he must go to the guard-house.”

“Nonsense!” is heard in Trofimytsch’s deep bass, no one knows whence.

“But he’s alive!” I cried suddenly, almost alarmed.

I had put my face near his.  I was thinking, “That’s the way drowned people look,” and my heart was near breaking, when all at once I saw David’s lips quiver and some water flowing from them.  Immediately I was shoved away and everybody crowded about him.  “Swing him I swing him!” some cry.