"Billy, have you ever read anything about Nihilists?"
"Sure, Berk. When I done my last bit in the dump below, a guy lent me a book. A corker, too, it was. Let's see, what you call 'em again?"
"Yes, sure. About some Nihirists. The book's called Aivan Strodjoff."
"What was the name?"
"Somethin' like that. Aivan Strodjoff or Strogoff."
"Oh, you mean Ivan Strogov, don't you?"
"That's it. Funny names them foreigners have. A fellow needs a cast-iron jaw to say it every day. But the story was a corker all right. About a Rooshan patriot or something. He was hot stuff, I tell you. Overheard a plot to kill th' king by them fellows—er—what's you call 'em?"
"Nihilists?"
"Yep. Nihilist plot, you know. Well, they wants to kill his Nibs and all the dookes, to make one of their own crowd king. See? Foxy fellows, you bet. But Aivan was too much for 'em. He plays detective. Gets in all kinds of scrapes, and some one burns his eyes out. But he's game. I don't remember how it all ends, but—"