“Wake up, friend,” ordered Clearchus; “you’re not condemning any poor scoundrel now.”
“Ai! ah!” Polus rubbed his eyes, “I only thought I was dropping the black bean—”
“Against whom?” quoth Crito, the fat contractor.
“Whom? Why that aristocrat Glaucon, surely,—to-night—” Polus suddenly checked himself and began to roll his eyes.
“You’ve a dreadful grievance against him,” remarked Clearchus; “the gods know why.”
“The wise patriot can see many things,” observed Polus, complacently, “only I repeat—wait till to-night—and then—”
“What then?” demanded all the others.
“Then you shall see,” announced the juror, with an oratorical flourish of his dirty himation, “and not you only but all of Athens.”
Clearchus grinned.
“Our dear Polus has a vast sense of his own importance. And who has been making you partner of the state secrets—Themistocles?”