If the drink at the kabak of Osterno was dangerous, the knowledge was no less so.

“I tell you, little fathers,” an orator was shouting, “that the day of the capitalist has gone.  The rich men—­the princes, the nobles, the great merchants, the monopolists, the tchinovniks—­tremble.  They know that the poor man is awakening at last from his long lethargy.  What have we done in Germany?  What have we done in America?  What have we done in England and France?”

Whereupon he banged an unwashed fist upon the table with such emphasis that more than one of the audience clutched his glass of vodka in alarm, lest a drop of the precious liquor should be wasted.

No one seemed to know what had been done in Germany, in America, in England, or in France.  The people’s orator is a man of many questions and much fist-banging.  The moujiks of Osterno gazed at him beneath their shaggy brows.  Half of them did not understand him.  They were as yet uneducated to a comprehension of the street orator’s periods.  A few of the more intelligent waited for him to answer his own questions, which he failed to do.  A vague and ominous question carries as much weight with some people as a statement, and has the signal advantage of being less incriminating.

The speaker—­a neckless, broad-shouldered ruffian of the type known in England as “unemployed”—­looked round with triumphant head well thrown back.  From his attitude it was obvious that he had been the salvation of the countries named, and had now come to Russia to do the same for her.  He spoke with the throaty accent of the Pole.  It was quite evident that his speech was a written one—­probably a printed harangue issued to him and his compeers for circulation throughout the country.  He delivered many of the longer words with a certain unctuous roll of the tongue, and an emphasis indicating the fact that he did not know their meaning.

“From afar,” he went on, “we have long been watching you.  We have noted your difficulties and your hardships, your sickness, your starvation.  ‘These men of Tver,’ we have said, ’are brave and true and steadfast.  We will tell them of liberty.’  So I have come to you, and I am glad to see you.  Alexander Alexandrovitch, pass the bottle down the table.  You see, little fathers, I have not come begging for your money.  No; keep your kopecks in your pocket.  We do not want your money.  We are no tchinovniks.  We prove it by giving you vodka to keep your throats wet and your ears open.  Fill up your glasses—­fill up your glasses!”

The little fathers of Osterno understood this part of the harangue perfectly, and acted upon it.

The orator scratched his head reflectively.  There was a certain business-like mouthing of his periods, showing that he had learnt all this by heart.  He did not press all his points home in the manner of one speaking from his own brain.

“I see before me,” he went on, without an overplus of sequence, “men worthy to take their place among the rulers of the world—­eh—­er—­rulers of the world, little fathers.”