He pronounced the letters as though they spelt a word—“Ara.” They conveyed nothing then to Bertram, though afterwards he came to know them as the greatest hope of life in Russia for the starving children from Petrograd to the Volga Valley, and the Russians spoke of “Ara” as though it were God. It meant the American Relief Administration.
“Any chance of a place on that train?” he asked.
The American smiled again.
“I expected that question. Is your passport all right for Moscow?”
Bertram showed it, and the American nodded.
“Any objection to lice?” he asked.
“I don’t invite them to dinner,” said Bertram, “but we were on speaking terms in the trenches. ‘Chatty,’ the men used to call it.”
“They’ll give you the glad hand in that train de luxe.”
“Then I can get a place?”
“I’ll fix you up. Better take supplies with you. Cheese. Biscuits. A kettle. Enamel mugs. Candles. Blankets. There’s not a restaurant car, nor a wagon lit.”