"What of it? We are comrades!"
Zarubin's black head, cropped and prickly, fell back. Yevsey saw the sharp gleaming little eyes on the swarthy face, saw the set teeth.
"You wait. Sit down."
Klimkov waved the bottle, and hit him in the face, aiming at his eyes. The ruddy blood gleamed oily and moist, awakening a ferocious joy in Klimkov. He swung his hand once again, pouring the beer over himself. Everybody began to cry "Oh, oh!" to scream, and rock. Somebody's nails drove themselves into Klimkov's face. He was seized by the arms and legs, lifted from the floor, and carried off. Somebody spat warm sticky saliva into his face, squeezed his throat, and tore his hair.
He came to his senses in the police station, all in tatters, scratched, and wet. He at once remembered everything.
"What will happen now?" was his first thought, though unaccompanied by alarm.
A police officer whom he knew advised him to wash his face and ride home.
"Are they going to try me?"
"I don't know," said the police officer, who sighed, and added enviously, "Hardly. Your department is a power. It is permitted everything. So they'll take care of you."
Yevsey smiled.