back, in "William P. Gould," a
bearded individual who spoke no Russian and only a little German, and
whose passport--issued by the American Minister and duly _vised_ by the
Russian Ambassador in London--described him as a native of Chicago.

Also we travelled by sea, from Hull to Riga, taking the gear along with
us; which in itself minimized the chance of detection.

We were to travel by rail from Riga to Wilna, via Dunaburg; and the rest
of the journey, rather over than under a hundred and twenty miles, must
be by road, riding or driving. From Wilna the goods we were taking would
follow us under a military escort.

"How's that?" I asked, when Mishka told me of this. "Who's going to
steal a couple of wagon-loads of farm things?"

His reply was enigmatic.

"You think you know something of Russia, because you've seen Petersburg
and Moscow, and have never been more than ten miles from a railroad.
Well, you are going to know something more now; not much, perhaps, but
it may teach you that those who keep to the railroad see only the froth
of a seething pot. We know what is in the pot, but you, and others like
you, do not; therefore you wonder that the froth is what it is."

A seething pot. The time soon came when I remembered his simile, and
acknowledged its truth; and I knew then that that pot was filled with
hell-broth!

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE ROAD TO ZOSTROV

Even before we left Riga,--where we were delayed for a couple of days
getting our goods through the Customs and on to the train,--I realized
somewhat at least of the meaning of Mishka's enigmatic utterance. Not
that we experienced any adventures. I suppose I played my part all right
as the American mechanic whose one idea was safeguarding the machinery
he was in charge of. Anyhow we got through the necessary interviews with
truculent officials without much difficulty. Most of them were unable to
understand the sort of German I chose to fire off at them, and had to
rely on Mishka's services as interpreter. The remarks they passed upon
me were not exactly complimentary,--low-grade Russian officials are
foul-mouthed enough at the best of times, and now, imagining that
I did not know what they were saying, they let loose their whole
vocabulary,--while I blinked blandly through the glasses I had assumed,
and, in reply to a string of filthy abuse, mildly suggested that they
should get a hustle on, and pass the things promptly.

I quite appreciated the humo