The latter glanced at Foma askance and went on in a creaking voice: “In my opinion, you are attacking the stupid people in vain. Masaniello was a fool, but what had to be performed was done in the best way possible. And that Winkelried was certainly a fool also, and yet had he not thrust the imperial spears into himself the Swiss would have been thrashed. Have there not been many fools like that? Yet they are the heroes. And the clever people are the cowards. Where they ought to deal the obstacle a blow with all their might they stop to reflect: ‘What will come of it? Perhaps we may perish in vain?’ And they stand there like posts--until they breathe their last. And the fool is brave! He rushes headforemost against the wall--bang! If his skull breaks--what of it? Calves’ heads are not dear. And if he makes a crack in the wall the clever people will pick it open into gates, will pass and credit themselves with the honour. No, Nikolay Matveyich, bravery is a good thing even though it be without reason.” “Vasily, you are talking nonsense!” said Yozhov, stretching his hand toward him. “Ah, of course!” assented Vasily. “How am I to sip cabbage soup with a bast shoe? And yet I am not blind. I can see. There is plenty of brains, but no good comes of it. During the time the clever people think and reflect as to how to act in the wisest way, the fools will down them. That’s all.” “Wait a little!” said Yozhov. “I can’t! I am on duty today. I am rather late as it is. I’ll drop in tomorrow--may I?” “Come! I’ll give a roasting!” “That’s exactly your business.” Vasily adjusted himself slowly, rose from the lounge, took Yozhov’s yellow, thin little hand in his big, swarthy paw and pressed it. “Goodbye!” Then he nodded toward Foma and went through the door sideways. “Have you seen?” Yozhov asked Foma, pointing his hand at the door, behind which the heavy footsteps still resounded. “What sort of a man is he?” “Assistant machinist, Vaska Krasnoshchokov. Here, take an example from him: At the age of fifteen he began to study, to read and write, and at twenty-eight he has read the devil knows how many good books, and has mastered two languages to perfection. Now he’s going abroad.” “What for?” inquired Foma. “To study. To see how people live there, while you languish here--what for?” “He spoke sensibly of the fools,” said Foma, thoughtfully. “I don’t know, for I am not a fool.” “That was well said. The stupid man ought to act at once. Rush forward and overturn.” “There, he’s broken loose!” exclaimed Yozhov. “You better tell me whether it is true that Mayakin’s son has returned?” “Yes.” “Why do you ask?” “Nothing.” “I can see by your face that there is something.” “We know all about his son; we’ve heard about him.” “But I have seen him.” “Well? What sort of man is he?” “The devil knows him! What have I to do with him?” “Is he like his father?” “He’s stouter, plumper; there is more seriousness about him; he is so cold.”