The older brother of Bukin, a tall, red-faced fellow, waved his hands and turned about rapidly in all directions.
"The district elder Klepanov has no place in this case," he declared aloud.
"Keep still, Konstantin!" his father, a little old man, tried to dissuade him, and looked around cautiously.
"No; I'm going to speak out! There's a rumor afloat about him that last year he killed a clerk of his on account of the clerk's wife. What kind of a judge is he? permit me to ask. He lives with the wife of his clerk—what have you got to say to that? Besides, he's a well-known thief!"
"Oh, my little father—Konstantin!"
"True!" said Samoylov. "True, the court is not a very just one."
Bukin heard his voice and quickly walked up to him, drawing the whole crowd after him. Red with excitement, he waved his hands and said:
"For thievery, for murder, jurymen do the trying. They're common people, peasants, merchants, if you please; but for going against the authorities you're tried by the authorities. How's that?"
"Konstantin! Why are they against the authorities? Ah, you! They——"
"No, wait! Fedor Mazin said the truth. If you insult me, and I land you one on your jaw, and you try me for it, of course I'm going to turn out guilty. But the first offender—who was it? You? Of course, you!"