The little old gray house of the Vlasovs attracted the attention of the village more and more; and although there was much suspicious chariness and unconscious hostility in this notice, yet at the same time a confiding curiosity grew up also. Now and then some one would come over, and looking carefully about him would say to Pavel: “Well, brother, you are reading books here, and you know the laws. Explain to me, then ——”

And he would tell Pavel about some injustice of the police or the factory administration. In complicated cases Pavel would give the man a note to a lawyer friend in the city, and when he could, he would explain the case himself.

Gradually people began to look with respect upon this young, serious man, who spoke about everything simply and boldly, and almost never laughed, who looked at everybody and listened to everybody with an attention which searched stubbornly into every circumstance, and always found a certain general and endless thread binding people together by a thousand tightly drawn knots.

Vlasova saw how her son had grown up; she strove to understand his work, and when she succeeded, she rejoiced with a childlike joy.

Pavel rose particularly in the esteem of the people after the appearance of his story about the “Muddy Penny.”

Back of the factory, almost encircling it with a ring of putrescence, stretched a vast marsh grown over with fir trees and birches. In the summer it was covered with thick yellow and green scum, and swarms of mosquitoes flew from it over the village, spreading fever in their course. The marsh belonged to the factory, and the new manager, wishing to extract profit from it, conceived the plan of draining it and incidentally gathering in a fine harvest of peat. Representing to the workingmen how much this measure would contribute to the sanitation of the locality and the improvement of the general condition of all, the manager gave orders to deduct a kopeck from every ruble of their earnings, in order to cover the expense of draining the marsh. The workingmen rebelled; they especially resented the fact that the office clerks were exempted from paying the new tax.

Pavel was ill on the Saturday when posters were hung up announcing the manager’s order in regard to the toll. He had not gone to work and he knew nothing about it. The next day, after mass, a dapper old man, the smelter Sizov, and the tall, vicious-looking locksmith Makhotin, came to him and told him of the manager’s decision.

“A few of us older ones got together,” said Sizov, speaking sedately, “talked the matter over, and our comrades, you see, sent us over to you, as you are a knowing man among us. Is there such a law as gives our manager the right to make war upon mosquitoes with our kopecks?”

“Think!” said Makhotin, with a glimmer in his narrow eyes. “Three years ago these sharpers collected a tax to build a bath house. Three thousand eight hundred rubles is what they gathered in. Where are those rubles? And where is the bath house?”

Pavel explained the injustice of the tax, and the obvious advantage of such a procedure to the factory owners; and both of his visitors went away in a surly mood.

The mother, who had gone with them to the door, said, laughing:

“Now, Pasha, the old people have also begun to come to seek wisdom from you.”

Without replying, Pavel sat down at the table with a busy air and began to write. In a few minutes he said to her: “Please go to the city immediately and deliver this note.”

“Is it dangerous?” she asked.

“Yes! A newspaper is being published for us down there! That ‘Muddy Penny’ story must go into the next issue.”

“I’ll go at once,” she replied, beginning hurriedly to put on her wraps.

This was the first commission her son had given her. She was happy that he spoke to her so openly about the matter, and that she might be useful to him in his work.

“I understand all about it, Pasha,” she said. “It’s a piece of robbery. What’s the name of the man? Yegor Ivanovich?”

“Yes,” said Pavel, smiling kindly.

She returned late in the evening, exhausted but contented.

“I saw Sashenka,” she told her son. “She sends you her regards. And this Yegor Ivanovich is such a simple fellow, such a joker! He speaks so comically.”

“I’m glad you like them,” said Pavel softly.

“They are simple people, Pasha. It’s good when people are simple. And they all respect you.”

Again, Monday, Pavel did not go to work. His head ached. But at dinner time Fedya Mazin came running in, excited, out of breath, happy, and tired.

“Come! The whole factory has arisen! They’ve sent for you. Sizov and Makhotin say you can explain better than anybody else. My! What a hullabaloo!”

Pavel began to dress himself silently.

“A crowd of women are gathered there; they are screaming!”

“I’ll go, too,” declared the mother. “You’re not well, and — what are they doing? I’m going, too.”

“Come,” Pavel said briefly.

They walked along the street quickly and silently. The mother panted with the exertion of the rapid gait and her excitement. She felt that something big was happening. At the factory gates a throng of women were discussing the affair in shrill voices. When the three pushed into the yard, they found themselves in the thick of a crowd buzzing and humming in excitement. The mother saw that all heads were turned in the same direction, toward the blacksmith’s wall, where Sizov, Makhotin, Vyalov, and five or six influential, solid workingmen were standing on a high pile of old iron heaped on the red brick paving of the court, and waving their hands.

“Vlasov is coming!” somebody shouted.

“Vlasov? Bring him along!”

Pavel was seized and pushed forward, and the mother was left alone.

“Silence!” came the shout from various directions. Near by the even voice of Rybin was heard:

“We must make a stand, not for the kopeck, but for justice. What is dear to us is not our kopeck, because it’s no rounder than any other kopeck; it’s only heavier; there’s more human blood in it than in the manager’s ruble. That’s the truth!”

The words fell forcibly on the crowd and stirred the men to hot responses:

“That’s right! Good, Rybin!”

“Silence! The devil take you!”

“Vlasov’s come!”

The voices mingled in a confused uproar, drowning the ponderous whir of the machinery, the sharp snorts of the steam, and the flapping of the leather belts. From all sides people came running, waving their hands; they fell into arguments, and excited one another with burning, stinging words. The irritation that had found no vent, that had always lain dormant in tired breasts, had awakened, demanded an outlet, and burst from their mouths in a volley of words. It soared into the air like a great bird spreading its motley wings ever wider and wider, clutching people and dragging them after it, and striking them against one another. It lived anew, transformed into flaming wrath. A cloud of dust and soot hung over the crowd; their faces were all afire, and black drops of sweat trickled down their cheeks. Their eyes gleamed from darkened countenances; their teeth glistened.

Pavel appeared on the spot where Sizov and Makhotin were standing, and his voice rang out:

“Comrades!”

The mother saw that his face paled and his lips trembled; she involuntarily pushed forward, shoving her way through the crowd.

“Where are you going, old woman?”

She heard the angry question, and the people pushed her, but she would not stop, thrusting the crowd aside with her shoulders and elbows. She slowly forced her way nearer to her son, yielding to the desire to stand by his side. When Pavel had thrown out the word to which he was wont to attach a deep and significant meaning, his throat contracted in a sharp spasm of the joy of fight. He was seized with an invincible desire to give himself up to the strength of his faith; to throw his heart to the people. His heart kindled with the dream of truth.

“Comrades!” he repeated, extracting power and rapture from the word. “We are the people who build churches and factories, forge chains and coin money, make toys and machines. We are that living force which feeds and amuses the world from the cradle to the grave.”

“There!” Rybin exclaimed.

“Always and everywhere we are first in work but last in life. Who cares for us? Who wishes us good? Who regards us as human beings? No one!”

“No one!” echoed from the crowd.

Pavel, mastering himself, began to talk more simply and calmly; the crowd slowly drew about him, blending into one dark, thick, thousand-headed body. It looked into his face with hundreds of attentive eyes; it sucked in his words in silent, strained attention.

“We will not attain to a better life until we feel ourselves as comrades, as one family of friends firmly bound together by one desire — the desire to fight for our rights.”

“Get down to business!” somebody standing near the mother shouted rudely.

“Don’t interrupt!” “Shut up!” The two muffled exclamations were heard in different places. The soot-covered faces frowned in sulky incredulity; scores of eyes looked into Pavel’s face thoughtfully and seriously.

“A socialist, but no fool!” somebody observed.

“I say, he does speak boldly!” said a tall, crippled workingman, tapping the mother on the shoulder.

“It is time, comrades, to take a stand against the greedy power that lives by our labor. It is time to defend ourselves; we must all understand that no one except ourselves will help us. One for all and all for one — this is our law, if we want to crush the foe!”

“He’s right, boys!” Makhotin shouted. “Listen to the truth!” And, with a broad sweep of his arm, he shook his fist in the air.

“We must call out the manager at once,” said Pavel. “We must ask him.”

As if struck by a tornado, the crowd rocked to and fro; scores of voices shouted:

“The manager! The manager! Let him come............