“Zubov!” cried Foma. “How many people have you fleeced and turned to beggars? Do you ever dream of Ivan Petrov Myakinnikov, who strangled himself because of you? Is it true that you steal at every mass ten roubles out of the church box?” Zubov had not expected the attack, and he remained as petrified, with his hand uplifted. But he immediately began to scream in a shrill voice, as he jumped up quickly: “Ah! You turn against me also? Against me, too?” And suddenly he puffed up his cheeks and furiously began to shake his fist at Foma, as he screamed in a shrill voice: “The fool says in his heart there is no God! I’ll go to the bishop! Infidel! You’ll get the galleys!” The tumult on the steamer grew, and at the sight of these enraged, perplexed and insulted people, Foma felt himself a fairy-tale giant, slaying monsters. They bustled about, waving their arms, talking to one another--some red with anger, others pale, yet all equally powerless to check the flow of his jeers at them. “Send the sailors over here!” cried Reznikov, tugging Kononov by the shoulder. “What’s the matter with you, Ilya? Ah? Have you invited us to be ridiculed?” “Against one puppy,” screamed Zubov. A crowd had gathered around Yakov Tarasovitch Mayakin, and listened to his quiet speech with anger, and nodded their heads affirmatively. “Act, Yakov!” said Robustov, loudly. “We are all witnesses. Go ahead!” And above the general tumult of voices rang out Foma’s loud, accusing voice: “It was not life that you have built--you have made a cesspool! You have bred filth and putrefaction by your deeds! Have you a conscience? Do you remember God? Money--that’s your God! And your conscience you have driven away. Whither have you driven it away? Blood-suckers! You live on the strength of others. You work with other people’s hands! You shall pay for all this! When you perish, you will be called to account for everything! For everything, even to a teardrop. How many people have wept blood at those great deeds of yours? And according to your deserts, even hell is too good a place for you, rascals. Not in fire, but in boiling mud you shall be scorched. Your sufferings shall last for centuries. The devils will hurl you into a boiler and will pour into it--ha, ha, ha! they’ll pour into it--ha, ha, ha! Honourable merchant class! Builders of Life. Oh, you devils!” Foma burst into ringing laughter, and, holding his sides, staggered, tossing his head up high. At that moment several men quickly exchanged glances, simultaneously rushed on Foma and downed him with their weight. A racket ensued. “Now you’re caught!” ejaculated some one in a suffocating voice. “Ah! Is that the way you’re doing it?” cried Foma, hoarsely. For about a half a minute a whole heap of black bodies bustled about on one spot, heavily stamping their feet, and dull exclamations were heard: “Throw him to the ground!” “Hold his hand, his hand! Oh!” “By the beard?” “Get napkins, bind him with napkins.”