“I want to come in, comrade,” cried Drexel, doing so. “And I want food—sleep—clothes!”
The undershot jaw of Ivan fell loose. “The American!” he ejaculated.
He turned to the bed. “Look at him, Nicolai—in those clothes! The American!”
Nicolai was already sitting up in bed, and there was a revolver in his hand and it was pointing at Drexel. “I see,” he said quietly.
“Well, if that isn’t a cordial way to say good-morning! Put down that gun.”
“Not just yet,” returned Nicolai. “How do you happen to be in those clothes? And how do you come to be here?”
“Cheer me up with the sight of food and I’ll talk. But first put away that gun. Oh, I had forgotten the first formality guests are subjected to in this establishment.” He held up his hands. “Here, Ivan—get busy.”
The little fellow quickly searched him and announced no weapons.
“Now breakfast,” said Drexel.
Still staring, Ivan brought the black bread and bologna from the window-sill, and started the samovar going. While the tea was being prepared, and the breakfast being devoured, Drexel told them as much as he thought wise of what had happened in the three days since he had fled this room.