"Ah, you robber! Wait, I'll——"
"Take him away—and look here, just look here!" cried Ilya, inviting the crowd to enter, "see how he's handled this fellow!"
Several customers came in, with anxious side glances at Ilya, and bent down over Jakov.
One said, astonished and frightened:
"He's smashed him up!"
"He's absolutely cut to ribbons!" added another.
"Bring some water," said Ilya, "and then we must have the police." The crowd was now on his side, he read it in their manner, and said aloud and with emphasis:
"You all know Petrusha Filimonov; you know that he is the biggest rascal in the street, and who has a word to say against his son? Well, here lies the son, wounded, perhaps maimed for life; and the father is to get off scot-free, is he? I have struck him once; I shall be condemned for that, is that right and fair? Is that even justice? And so it is all round. One man may do as he likes, and another must not move an eyelash."
One or two sighed sympathetically, others went silently away. Ilya was going on, but Petrusha burst into the room and turned them all out.
"Get out! Be off! This is my affair. He's my son, I'm his father. Be off! I'm not afraid of the police, and I don't need 'em, either—not a bit of it. I'll settle with you, my lad. Clear out of this!"