olicemen, who waked up a cabman for me
and took a kindly interest in the inevitable bargaining which ensued.
While this was in progress, up came two dusty and tattered
"pilgrims,"--"religious tramps" will designate their character with
perfect accuracy,--who were sufficiently wide awake to beg. I
positively had not a kopek in change; but not even a Russian beggar
would believe that. I parried the attack.

"I'm not an Orthodox Christian, my good men. I am sure that you do not
want money from a heretic."

"Never mind; I'm a bachelor," replied one of them bravely and
consolingly.

When we had all somewhat recovered from this, the policemen, catching
the spirit of the occasion, explained to the men that I and my money
were extremely dangerous to the Orthodox, both families and bachelors,
especially to pious pilgrims to the shrines, such as they were, and they
gently but firmly compelled the men to move on, despite their vehement
protestations that they were willing to run the risk and accept the
largest sort of change from the heretic. But I was obdurate. I knew from
experience that for five kopeks, or less, I should receive thanks,
reverences to the waist or even to the ground; but that the gift of more
than five kopeks would result in a thankless, suspicious stare, which
would make me feel guilty of some enormous undefined crime. This was
Count Tolstoy's experience also. We devoted ourselves to cabby once
more.

Such a winning fellow as that Vanka was, from the very start! After I
had concluded the bargain for an extra horse and an apron which his
carriage lacked, he persuaded me that one horse was enough--at the
price of two. To save time I yielded, deducting twenty-five cents only
from the sum agreed on, lest I should appear too easily cheated. That
sense of being ridiculed as an inexperienced simpleton, when I had
merely paid my interlocutor the compliment of trusting him, never ceased
to be a pain and a terror to me.

The friendly policemen smiled impartially upon Vanka and us, as they
helped to pack us in the drosky.

Tula as we saw it on our way out, and as we had seen it during our
morning stroll, did not look like a town of sixty-four thousand
inhabitants, or an interesting place of residence. It was a good type of
the provincial Russian town. There were the broad unpaved, or badly
paved, dusty streets. There were the stone official buildings, glaring
white in the sun, interspersed with wooden houses, rang