‘Out there, moored to that big buoy. You will see she has the Imperial flag flying.’ As he spoke, the landlord pointed to the outside of the harbour, where a large steam-yacht, painted white, was moored. A thin film of smoke was issuing from her funnels, and a little wreath of steam from her steam-pipes. ‘She has been outside into the roadstead this morning to adjust her compasses. I see a bargeload of stores has just gone off to her.’
‘At what hour will the Imperial party arrive to-morrow?’
‘They are timed, I understand, to be here at nine o’clock,’ said the landlord.
‘The Czar is a stickler for punctuality, isn’t he?’ asked the stranger.
‘Yes. I understand he is seldom behind time if he can help it. Well, his Majesty will have a good trip, I hope. The weather promises to be fine. God protect him!’
‘She is a fine yacht, is the North Star, I suppose?’
‘Splendid! Magnificent! I once had the honour of going on board by the courtesy of one of the officers, who gave me an order. But she was laid up then, and partly dismantled. Now would be the time to see her, when she is all ready for the Little Father’s reception. But that is impossible. No one not connected with the vessel would be allowed on board.’
The stranger smiled, as he remarked:
‘I am not connected with the vessel, and yet I am going on board.’
‘You are!’ cried the host in astonishment. ‘Impossible!’