"I want to protest."
But there was nothing to protest on. A happy thought struck Know-All:
"Shall we write something on the fence at least?"
There were no fences in St Petersburg, only iron railings.
But they proceeded to the outskirts of the town, where, near the slaughterhouses, they came upon an old fence. No sooner, however, had Mr High-Brow made the first letter in chalk than, suddenly, as if dropping from the skies came a policeman and began to expostulate with him:
"What does this mean? When boys do this sort of thing they are whipped, but you, staid gentlemen, what are you doing?"
Of course he could not understand them, taking them for writers old enough to be writing their thousand and first article. They were nonplussed, and, scattering literally in all directions, went home.
So that one pogrom was not protested against, and the humanitarians were deprived of a pleasure.
People who understand the psychology of races say rightly: "The Jews are a shrewd people."
[1] A well-known place of exile in Siberia.