The man faced about abruptly, and walked to the other exit. There he was met by Zarubin, who shouted in a loud voice:
"Here, this man in a hat! I know him! He makes bombs! Take care, boys!"
A revolver gleamed in Zarubin's hand. He swung it as if it were a stone, and thrust it forward. People from the street clambered to the platform, and the passengers pressing to the exits met them face to face. The lady screeched:
"Take off your hat! Why, man!"
All screamed, roared, and pressed one another. Their eyes staring insanely, fastened upon the man in the hat.
"I'm going to shoot! Get away!" the man shouted aloud, advancing upon Zarubin. The spy retreated, but he was pushed in back, and fell to his knees. Supporting himself on the floor with one hand, he stretched out the other. A shot rang out, then another. The windows rattled. For a second all the cries congealed. Then the firm voice said contemptuously:
"Vile curs!"
The air and the windows quivered with a third shot, and Zarubin uttered a loud cry:
"Ugh!" His head struck the floor, as if he were making an obeisance at somebody's feet. The car became emptier and quieter. Klimkov ensconced in a corner, shrivelled up on his seat, and thought listlessly:
"I might have been killed."