ay.

They are going to get about a million men to take a petition to the
czar, workingmen and anarchists, and dad says he is going as an American
anarchist who is smarting from injustice, and I guess no native is
smarting more than dad is, 'cause he has to stand up to eat and lie on
his stummick to sleep. There is going to be a hades of a time here in
St. Petersburg this next week, and dad and I are going to be in it clear
up to our necks.

Dad has given up trying to see the czar about stopping the war and says
the czar and the whole bunch can go plum (to the devil) and he will die
with the mob and follow a priest who is stirring the people to revolt.

Gee, I hope dad will not get killed here and be buried in a trench with
a thousand Russians, smelling as they do.

I met a young man from Chicago, who is here selling reapers for the
harvester trust, and he says if you are once suspected of having
sympathy with the working people who are on a strike you might just as
well say your prayers and take rough on rats, 'cause the Cossacks will
get you, and he would advise me and dad to get out of here pretty quick,
but when I told dad about it he put one hand on his heart and the other
on his pants and said "Arnica, arnica, arnica!" and the police that
were on guard near his room thought he meant anarchy, and they sent four
detectives to stay in dad's room.

The people here, the Chicago young man told me, think the Cossacks are
human hyenas, that they have had their hearts removed by a surgical
operation when young, and a piece of gizzard put in in place of the
heart, and that they are natural murderers, the sight of blood acting
on them the same as champagne on a human being, and that but for the
Cossacks Russia would have a population of loving subjects that would
make it safe for the Little Father to go anywhere in Russia unattended,
but with Cossacks ready to whip and murder and laugh at suffering, the
people are becoming like men bitten by rabid dogs, and they froth at the
mouth and have spasms and carry bombs up their sleeves, ready to blow up
the members of the royal family, and there you are.

If you do not hear from me after next Sunday you can put dad's obituary
and mine in the local papers and say we died of an overdose of Cossack.
If we get through this revolution alive you will hear from me, but this
is the last revolution I am going to attend.

Yours,

Hennery.

CHAPTER XXI.

Dad Sees a Russ