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.