“Yes, sir,” said the waiter. “This is an officers’ mess—officers of the Ataman’s army.”
“Then I am sorry,” said Peter, reverting to Russian for the benefit of the Cossacks. “I thought this was the hotel restaurant. I had no intention of intruding,” and he pushed back his chair to rise from the table.
“You speak Russian, sir,” said the waiter, in Russian.
“Yes,” said Peter. “And you speak English surprisingly well—also Russian.”
“Hans!” A young Cossack who sat two tables beyond Peter, and faced him, called the waiter away and handed him something. The waiter was back to Peter by the time he had risen to leave the room.
“Here is a ticket for you, sir. The Cossack gentleman—the lieutenant—wishes you to have your supper here,” said the waiter.
Peter bowed to the young officer, who smiled across the shoulders of the woman with him. He was a thin-faced chap, with heavy black hair down on his forehead after the Cossack fashion. Gold straps covered his shoulders, and a great saber lay outside the table legs, where it swung down to the floor from his belt.
Peter sat down again. It would be in the nature of an affront not to accept the proffered hospitality. And the waiter brought thick cabbage soup with a yellowish scum of fat floating on its surface, black bread, a plate of chopped meat, with a mound of boiled grains of wheat, and a glass of tea.
During the meal the orchestra continued to play. The Cossacks and their women talked in low tones. Finally, they began to drift away gradually till none was left but the young officer who had sent Peter the supper ticket. And in time his companion disappeared also. Then the young officer approached Peter’s table, and bowed.
“You are an American officer, but you speak Russian,” said the Cossack. He smiled and clicked his spurred heels.