"So am I," said he. Then he sighed. "There's one, now," said he, after a moment, thoughtfully. "I might—Wait a moment."
He disappeared, and presently returned with a perfect treasure of a samovar,—old, battered, green with age and use. We went into ecstasies over it.
"I'll take it," I said. "How much is it?"
"It was twenty-five dollars," said he, dismally. "It is sold."
"How very peculiar," said my companion, as we went away, "to keep bringing out samovars that are sold."
For two years my thoughts reverted at intervals to those "sold" samovars at Unalaska. Last summer I went down the Yukon. At St. Michael I was entertained at the famous "Cottage" for several days. One day at dinner I asked a gentleman if he knew Captain Gray.
"Of Unalaska?" exclaimed two or three at once. Then they all burst out laughing.
"We all know him," one said. "Everybody knows him."
"But why do you laugh?"
"Oh, because he is so 'slick' at taking in a tourist."