f you knew, as I do, how some of his nights
pass,--dice, Rhodian fighting-cocks, dancing-girls, and worse things,--"

"I'll scarce believe it," grunted the juror; yet then confessed somewhat
ruefully, "however, he is unfortunate in his bosom friend."

"What do you mean?" demanded the potter.

"Glaucon the Alcmaeonid, to be sure. I cried '_Io, paean!_' as loud as the
others when he came back; still I weary of having a man always so
fortunate."

"Even as you voted to banish Aristeides, Themistocles's rival, because you
were tired of hearing him called 'the Just.' "

"There's much in that. Besides, he's an Alcmaeonid, and since their old
murder of Cylon the house has been under a blood curse. He has married the
daughter of Hermippus, who is too highly born to be faithful to the
democracy. He carries a Laconian cane,--sure sign of Spartanizing
tendencies. He may conspire any day to become tyrant."

"Hush," warned Clearchus, "there he passes now, arm in arm with Democrates
as always, and on his way to the assembly."

"The men are much alike in build," spoke Crito, slowly, "only Glaucon is
infinitely handsomer."

"And infinitely less honest. I distrust your too beautiful and too lucky
men," snapped Polus.

"Envious dog," commented Agis; and bitter personalities might have
followed had not a bell jangled from an adjacent portico.

"Phormio, my brother-in-law, with fresh fish from Phaleron," announced
Polus, drawing a coin from his wonted purse,--his cheek; "quick, friends,
we must buy our dinners."

Between the columns of the portico stood Phormio the fishmonger, behind a
table heaped with his scaly wares. He was a thick, florid man with blue
eyes lit by a humourous twinkle. His arms were crusted with brine. To his
waist he was naked. As the friends edged nearer he held up a turbot,
calling for a bid. A clamour answered him. The throng pressed up the
steps, elbowing and scrambling. The competition was keen but good-natured.
Phormio's broad jests and witticisms--he called all his customers by
name--aided in forcing up the price. The turbot was knocked down to a rich
gentleman's cook marketing for his master. The pile of fish decreased, the
bidding sharpened. The "Market Wardens" seemed needed to check the
jostling. But as the last eel was held up, came a cry--

"Look out for the rope!"

Phormio's customers scattered. Scythian constables were stretching cords
dusted with red chalk across all exits from the Agora,