Pavel raised his hand--the pole swung, and a dozen hands caught
the smooth white rod. Among them was the mother's hand.
"Long live the working people!" he shouted. Hundreds of voices
responded to his sonorous call. "Long live the Social Democratic
Workingmen's Party, our party, comrades, our spiritual mother."
The crowd seethed and hummed. Those who understood the meaning of
the flag squeezed their way up to it. Mazin, Samoylov, and the
Gusevs stood close at Pavel's side. Nikolay with bent head pushed
his way through the crowd. Some other people unknown to the mother,
young and with burning eyes, jostled her.
"Long live the working people of all countries!" shouted Pavel.
And ever increasing in force and joy, a thousand-mouthed echo
responded in a soul-stirring acclaim.
The mother clasped Pavel's hand, and somebody else's, too. She was
breathless with tears, yet refrained from shedding them. Her legs
trembled, and with quivering lips she cried:
"Oh, my dear boys, that's true. There you are now----"
A broad smile spread over Nikolay's pockmarked face; he stared at
the flag and, stretching his hand toward it, roared out something;
then caught the mother around the neck with the same hand, kissed
her, and laughed.
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