The posselentsy was sitting with his back against the log wall, taking frequent pulls at a bottle of vodka, which, though forbidden to the colonists except at the two great Russian festivals in October and January, is secretly manufactured in stills deep in the woods, and stealthily bought and sold. But this bottle was a present.
"Yes," he was saying in answer to a question; "he checks the logs loaded into store by the foremen of our artels."
"An easy job, no doubt," suggested the other man—the Pole Anton Sowinski.
"Easy! It's child's play. All he has to do is to count the logs and write the numbers in a book. Then the dirty Pole—I beg pardon; I forgot he was a countryman of yours—gives out the vouchers, and the work—work!—is done. I had the Englishman's job myself—until I made a mistake in the figures."
"A mistake!"
"Well, they said it was intended. At any rate they sent me back to the woods."
"And while this Englishman—this spy—and the other sit at their ease, you poor Russians have to do all the hard work. I suppose it is hard?"
"Hard! Try it, barin. Felling trees and splitting logs all day is not exactly a soft job. And to make matters worse, since this war has been going on they've set a lot of us fellows to deal with the fish—make the stinking fish manure that the Japanese used to make. The herring season is just beginning; that'll be my pleasant occupation next week."
"And that is the life you lead while the Englishman—the spy—and the other live like barins, eh? It is shameful."
The Russian took a long pull at the bottle. It was not often he got a chance of airing his grievances and drinking vodka from the continent—a great deal more to his taste than the crude poison of local manufacture.