the farther corner, can put down half a million dollars
apiece any day they like.

Suddenly the attention of the taker of notes is attracted by the mention
of a familiar subject, the Franco-German war, and, turning round, he sees
at the table next his own two men in earnest conversation--the one a big,
florid, red-bearded fellow with a huge crimson comforter round his bull
neck, who is laying down the law in the most _ex-cathedra_ fashion to his
neighbor, a meek-looking little man with gray hair and bright, restless
eyes, not unlike those of a squirrel. At first, the surrounding buzz of
conversation and the clatter of plates and glasses allow him to catch
only a stray word of the dialogue every here and there; but after a time a
temporary lull in the hub-bub brings out in strong relief the following
words, spoken with all the confidence of a man accustomed to be listened
to:

"Every one has his turn, Yakov Andreievitch (James the son of Andrew), and
no man can escape what is ordained for him. The Nyemtzi (Germans) have
beaten the French. Well, what then? By and by, please God, the French will
beat the Nyemtzi. 'To live a lifetime is not to cross a field,' and
everything must change sooner or later."

The little man, who is listening to his big neighbor's philosophizings
with an air of timid admiration, remains silent for a moment, as if
digesting the profound wisdom contained in the last remark, and then
ventures to observe, "You speak truly, Pavel Petrovitch (Paul the son of
Peter), but, in the mean time, what if these godless Germans fall upon
Holy Russia?"

"Well, what if they do?" echoes the big man in a tone of supreme disdain.
"Let them try it! Ach, Yakov Andreievitch! how you talk! Surely you're not
such a brainless fool as to think that those hogs can ever beat the
Pravoslavnie (orthodox)? Don't you know that Father Alexander
Nikolaievitch (the emperor) is the mightiest of all the kings of the
earth?"

"Well--yes--of course," answers the other hesitatingly; "but still, you
know, didn't Tsar Napolevon march over our borders in the year '12, and
burn Mother Moscow?"

"And what then?" rejoins the oracle, surveying him with calm, indulgent
contempt. "Don't you know that the devil helped him, or he could never
have done anything?"

His hearer responds to this unanswerable argument by a murmur of assent,
and washes it down with a huge gulp of tea.

"And then," pursues Paul, following up his advantage, "didn