“There is a change coming for the prince—for all the princes,” replied the man in the usual taproom jargon. “For the Emperor too. The poor man has had enough of it. God made the world for the poor man as well as for the rich. Riches should be equally divided. They are going to be. The country is going to be governed by a Mir. There will be no taxes. The Mir makes no taxes. It is the tchinovniks who make the taxes and live on them.”
“Ah, you are very eloquent, little father. If you talk like this in the kabak no wonder you have a bad throat. There, I can do no more for you. You must wash more and drink less. You might try a little work perhaps; it stimulates the appetite. And with a throat like that I should not talk so much if I were you. Next!”
The next comer was afflicted with a wound that would not heal—a common trouble in cold countries.
While attending to this sickening sore Paul continued his conversation with the last patient.
“You must tell me,” he said, “when these changes are about to come. I should like to be there to see. It will be interesting.”
The man laughed mysteriously.
“So the government is to be by a Mir, is it?” went on Paul.
“Yes; the poor man is to have a say in it.”
“That will be interesting. But at the Mir every one talks at once and no one listens; is it not so?”
The man made no reply.