"In that jury," began Ilya slowly and with emphasis, "there are men."
"Not men, tradesmen," the dark-headed man improved the phrase. Ilya looked at him and repeated:
"Tradesmen. I know some of them."
"Aha!"
"A fine sort—not to put it too finely."
"Thieves—eh?" his companion helped him out. He spoke loudly, but in an ordinary way, then threw away his cigarette end, pinched up his lips in a loud whistle and looked at Ilya with eyes bold almost to insolence; all these movements followed one another in eager restlessness.
"Of course; anyway, justice so-called is mostly a pretty good farce," he said shrugging. "The fat people improve the criminal tendencies of the hungry people. I often come to the courts, but I never saw a hungry man sit in judgment on the well fed—if the well fed do it among themselves—it happens generally from extra greed and means—don't take everything, leave me some!"
"It also means—the well fed can't understand the hungry," said Ilya.
"Oh, nonsense!" answered his companion. "They understand all right—that's what makes them so severe."
"Well—well fed and honourable—that might pass!" Ilya went on half aloud. "But well fed scoundrels, how can they judge other men?"