“Only to Irkutsk,” said Peter. He broke the ice in his canvas bucket and washed his face, while the conductor looked on awe-struck at any person who could be so mad as to wash in ice water. He scanned Peter’s tunic, which hung from the shelf.
“Are you Czech?” he asked finally.
“No, I am an American—an officer.”
The conductor opened his mouth wide and crossed himself with both hands.
“But you speak Russian,” he said. “It is not right that you should speak Russian like a Russian and be an American!”
“I am really Russian,” said Peter. “But it is that I have been in America a long time. I came from Petersburg, and now I have come back to help Russia to be free. Do you know Chita well?”
“I? Yes, a little. My wife’s cousin died there in the time of the pestilence. He was a fur-hunter, but he was a stingy. I am not sorry that he died. He ate much when he came to see us, and never had an extra kopeck for the children.”
“Who is the governor of Chita now?”
The conductor gave a snort of disgust. “How could there be a governor in this time of freedom? That is the old way. But we are free men now, as good as anybody. Am I not as good as an officer?”
“Better,” said Peter. “But there was a governor in the old days. Every place had a governor for the Czar. You know that as well as I, my friend.”