Stchemilov whistled and said:

"That is the origin of all ownership. You simply took a thing--and
that's all there was to it. 'Blessed are the strong' is a little adage
among those who have conquered violently."

"And how did you get hold of this?" asked Piotr with derision.

"Crumbs of wisdom fall from the tables of the rich even to us,"
answered Stchemilov in a no less contemptuous tone; "we nourish
ourselves on these small trifles."

The other young man, clearly a workman also, remained in the boat. He
looked rather timid, lean, and taciturn, and had gleaming eyes.

He sat holding on to the ropes of the rudder, and was looking
cautiously towards the bank. Stchemilov looked at him with amused
tenderness and called to him:

"Come here, Kiril, don't be afraid; there are kindly people
here--quite disposed to us, in fact."

Piotr grumbled angrily under his breath. Misha smiled. He was eager to
see the new-comer, though he hated violent discussions. Kiril got out
of the boat awkwardly, and no less awkwardly stood up on the sand, his
face averted; he smiled to hide his uneasiness. Piotr's irritation
grew.

"Please be seated," he said, trying to assume a pleasant tone.