“Because, by Zeus, he seems to me one of the most foolish of men!... If he was living so merrily and contentedly at Athens as is said, why doesn’t he stay there? What does he want here of us?”
Lycon laughed and asked:
“Of what city is this man a native?”
“Of Chæroneia.”
“Aha!” exclaimed Lycon laughing, “I thought the man who reproached me for my return to Methone, the only good deed I ever performed, must be a—Bœotian!”
Socles did not know what to answer and, seeing him stand there with his mouth wide open, an image of Bœotian stupidity, the whole assembly burst into a roar of laughter, so scornful, noisy, deafening in its mirth, that it seemed as if every stone in the theatre was laughing.
Socles stood for a moment as though paralyzed with bewilderment. Then, wrapping his mantle around him, he started with crimson face for the nearest entrance, slipping through the crowd, striding over empty places in the stone benches, and forcing his way through the groups in the passages. It was done so quickly that it looked as if the fat little man was blown away over the seats by the unbridled laughter of the throng.
“Why, why, how he jumps!” shouted the smith, shaking with glee as, fairly convulsed with merriment, he loudly slapped his thigh.
“Lycon has made Socles a deer!” cried a second voice.
“He skips like a discus behind the mark!” added a third.