“Silence!” roared Foma, with blood-shot eyes. “Now they’re grunting.”
“Gentlemen!” rang out Mayakin’s calm, malicious voice, like the screech of a smooth-file on iron. “Don’t touch him! I entreat you earnestly, do not hinder him. Let him snarl. Let him amuse himself. His words cannot harm you.”
“Well, no, I humbly thank you!” cried Yushkov. And close at Foma’s side stood Smolin and whispered in his ear:
“Stop, my dear boy! What’s the matter with you? Are you out of your wits? They’ll do you—!”
“Get away!” said Foma, firmly, flashing his angry eyes at him. “You go to Mayakin and flatter him, perhaps something will come your way!”
Smolin whistled through his teeth and stepped aside. And the merchants began to disperse on the steamer, one by one. This irritated Foma still more he wished he could chain them to the spot by his words, but he could not find such powerful words.
“You have built up life!” he shouted. “Who are you? Swindlers, robbers.”
A few men turned toward Foma, as if he had called them.
“Kononov! are they soon going to try you for that little girl? They’ll convict you to the galleys. Goodbye, Ilya! You are building your steamers in vain. They’ll transport you to Siberia on a government vessel.”
Kononov sank into a chair; his blood leaped to his face, and he shook his fist in silence. Foma said hoarsely: