spoke certain comically wrathful, conscience-rending
words, and this embarrassed them. Moreover, he was strong and ready to
fight, and they dared not say a word against him. And that was just what
he wanted. He wished more and more intensely that one of these people
he despised would stand up against him, face to face, and would tell
him something strong, which, like a lever, would turn him aside from the
sloping road, whose danger he felt, and whose filth he saw, being filled
with helpless aversion for it.

And Foma found what he needed.

One day, irritated by the lack of attention for him, he cried to his
drinking-companions:

"You boys, keep quiet, every one of you! Who gives you to drink and to
eat? Have you forgotten it? I'll bring you in order! I'll show you how
to respect me! Convicts! When I speak you must all keep quiet!"

And, indeed, all became silent; either for fear lest they might lose his
good will, or, perhaps, afraid that he, that healthy and strong beast,
might beat them. They sat in silence about a minute, concealing their
anger at him, bending over the plates and attempting to hide from him
their fright and embarrassment. Foma measured them with a self-satisfied
look, and gratified by their slavish submissiveness, said boastfully:

"Ah! You've grown dumb now, that's the way! I am strict! I--"

"You sluggard!" came some one's calm, loud exclamation.

"Wha-at?" roared Foma, jumping up from his chair. "Who said that?"

Then a certain, strange, shabby-looking man arose at the end of the
table; he was tall, in a long frock-coat, with a heap of grayish hair
on his large head. His hair was stiff, standing out in all directions in
thick locks, his face was yellow, unshaven, with a long, crooked nose.
To Foma it seemed that he resembled a swab with which the steamer decks
are washed, and this amused the half-intoxicated fellow.

"How fine!" said he, sarcastically. "What are you snarling at, eh? Do
you know who I am?"

With the gesture of a tragic actor the man stretched out to Foma his
hand, with its long, pliant fingers like those of a juggler, and he said
in a deep hoarse basso:

"You are the rotten disease of your father, who, though he was a
plunderer, was nevertheless a worthy man in comparison with you."

Because of the unexpectedness of this, and because of his wrath, Foma's
heart shrank. He fiercely opened his eyes wide and kept silent, finding
no words to reply to this insolence. And the