It was full, and every one was eating his
or her meal very comfortably as though nothing at all were the matter. I
sat down with a young American, an acquaintance of mine attached to the
American Embassy.
"There's a tremendous crowd in the Nevski," I said.
"Guess I'm too hungry to trouble about it," he answered.
"Do you think there's going to be any trouble?" I asked.
"Course not. These folks are always wandering round. M. Protopopoff has
it in hand all right."
"Yes, I suppose he has," I answered with a sigh.
"You seem to want trouble," he said, suddenly looking up at me.
"No, I don't want trouble," I answered. "But I'm sick of this mess, this
mismanagement, thievery, lying--one's tempted to think that anything
would be better--"
"Don't you believe it," he said brusquely. "Excuse me, Durward, I've
been in this country five years. A revolution would mean God's own
upset, and you've got a war on, haven't you?"
"They might fight better than ever," I argued.
"Fight!" he laughed. "They're dam sick of it all, that's what they are.
And a revolution would leave 'em like a lot of silly sheep wandering on
to a precipice.
Pages:
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267