"That's just it, for we are neither fish, nor fowl, nor good red herring," interposes Deacon Tarass.
"Leave him in peace, 'Scraps,'" says the schoolmaster pacifically. "What's the use of throwing oil on the fire?"
The schoolmaster did not like quarrels and noise. When passions grew hot around him his lips twitched painfully, and he unobtrusively tried to make peace; not succeeding in which, he would leave the company to themselves. The captain knew this well, and if he was not very drunk he restrained himself, not wishing to lose the best auditor of his brilliant speeches.
"I repeat," he continued now, with more restraint—"I repeat, that I see that life is in the hands of foes, not only of foes of the nobility, but foes of all that is noble; of greedy, ignorant people, who won't do anything to improve the conditions of life. Still," argues the schoolmaster, "merchants created Genoa, Venice, Holland. It was the merchants, the merchants of England who won India. It was the merchants Stroganoff's"—
"What have I to do with those merchants? I am speaking of Judah Petounnikoff and his kind, with whom I have to do."
"And what have you to do with these?" asked the schoolmaster softly.
"Well, I'm alive. I'm in the world. I can't help being indignant at the thought of these savages, who have got hold of life, and who are doing their best to spoil it!"
"And who are laughing at the noble indignation of a captain and an outcast!" interjects "Scraps" provokingly.
"It's stupid, very stupid! I agree with you. As an outcast I must destroy all the feelings and thoughts that were once in me. That's perhaps true; but how shall we arm ourselves, you and I, if we throw on one side these feelings?"
"Now you are beginning to speak reasonably," says the schoolmaster encouragingly.