"Revolvers, eh? Just like toys."
Giving himself over to Yakov's mood, Yevsey looked at the various articles with the wandering look of empty eyes, and smiled, astounded, as if for the first time seeing the pretty, alluring multitude of brilliant materials and vari-colored books, the blinding gleam of colors and metals. He was pleased to hear the young voice still in the state of change; the rapid talk steeped in the joy of life was agreeable to him. It lightly penetrated the dark void of Klimkov's soul, and allowed him to forget himself for a moment.
"You're a jolly fellow," he said approvingly.
"Very. I learned to dance from the Cossacks. A score of Cossacks are stationed in our factory. Did you hear that the men in our factory wanted to rise? You didn't? How's that? The newspapers wrote about it. Yes, so I learned to dance from the Cossacks. Wait, you'll see. Nobody can beat me."
"Why did they want to rise?" asked Yevsey, provoked by the simplicity with which Yakov spoke of a revolt.
"Why? They wrong us workingmen. What, then, are we to do?"
"And you would have done it, too?"
"What? Rebel? Of course. What else? Our people are good, they're solid."
"And how about the Cossacks?"
"The Cossacks? So, so. They are people, too. At first they thought they would officer it over us, but then they said, 'Comrades, give us leaflets.'"