The customers sprung up as though boiling water were poured on them, but Ilya sprung over Petrusha's body, went into the room behind, and bolted the door. A tin lamp with a blackened chimney burned flickeringly in the little room, made still smaller by wine-bins and boxes of all kinds. At first Ilya did not distinguish his friend in the dark, cramped space. Jakov lay on the floor, his head in the shadow, and his face seemed black and dreadful. Ilya took the lamp, and, bending down, examined the maltreated lad. Bluish spots and bruises covered the face like a horrible dark mask; the eyes were swollen; he breathed with difficulty and groaned and evidently could not see, for he asked, as Ilya bent over him: "Who is it?" "I," said Lunev softly, and straightened himself. "Give me something to drink!" Ilya turned round. There was a loud knocking at the door, and some one called out: "We'll try it from the stairs at the back!" "Run for the police!" said another. Petrusha's whimpering rose above the noise: "You all saw it! I never touched him. O--oh!" Ilya smiled rejoicingly. He liked to realise that Petrusha was suffering. He stepped to the door and began to parley with the besiegers. "Hullo, you there! Stop your noise! If I gave him one in the mouth, he won't die of it, and I'll take my punishment from the magistrate. Don't you shove yourselves in! Don't bang on the door! I'll open it." He opened the door, and stood on the threshold, his fists clenched in case of an attack. The crowd gave back before his strong figure and fighting look. Only Petrusha growled, pushing the others aside: "Ah, you robber! Wait, I'll----" "Take him away--and look here, just look here!" cried Ilya, inviting the crowd to enter, "see how he's handled this fellow!" Several customers came in, with anxious side glances at Ilya, and bent down over Jakov. One said, astonished and frightened: "He's smashed him up!" "He's absolutely cut to ribbons!" added another. "Bring some water," said Ilya, "and then we must have the police." The crowd was now on his side, he read it in their manner, and said aloud and with emphasis: "You all know Petrusha Filimonov; you know that he is the biggest rascal in the street, and who has a word to say against his son? Well, here lies the son, wounded, perhaps maimed for life; and the father is to get off scot-free, is he? I have struck him once; I shall be condemned for that, is that right and fair? Is that even justice? And so it is all round. One man may do as he likes, and another must not move an eyelash." One or two sighed sympathetically, others went silently away. Ilya was going on, but Petrusha burst into the room and turned them all out. "Get out! Be off! This is my affair. He's my son, I'm his father. Be off! I'm not afraid of the police, and I don't need 'em, either--not a bit of it. I'll settle with you, my lad. Clear out of this!"