In the meantime the boat drew nearer. Two men were sitting in it.
Aleksei Makarovitch Stchemilov, a young working man, a locksmith by
trade, sat at the oars. He was thin and of medium height; there was a
suggestion of irony in the shape of his lips. Elisaveta had known
Stchemilov since the past autumn, when she became acquainted with
other labouring men and party workmen.

The boat touched the landing, and Stchemilov sprang out gracefully.
Piotr remarked derisively as he bowed with exaggerated politeness:

"My homage to the proletariat of all lands."

Stchemilov answered quietly:

"My most humble respects to the gentleman student."

He exchanged greetings with all; then, turning with special deference
towards Elisaveta, said:

"I've rowed back your property. It was almost taken from me. Our
suburbanites have their own conceptions of the divine rights of
ownership."

Piotr boiled over with vexation--the very sight of this young
blouse-wearer irritated him beyond bounds; he thought Stchemilov's
manners and speech arrogant. Piotr said sharply:

"As far as I understand your notion of things, it is not rights that
are holy, but brute force."