"Zdrastvitye! Roosky?"
I had guessed aright; he replied in Russian.
"Are you working in a gang?" I inquired.
"No, only on the section of the railway; there are six of us. We have charge of this section. Where are you going to? To Chicago? Looking for a job? Going to friends there? Where are you going to sleep? This village is not a good one. Ne dobry. If you sleep there, on the seat, up comes the politzman, and he locks you up. So you be three weeks late in getting to Chicago perhaps. Why do you walk? You get on freight train and you be there to-morrow or the day after. You come with me now. I sleep in a closed truck with five mates, four are Magyars, one is a Serb. It's very full up, and I don't know how the Magyars would take it if I brought you in. But I know a good place. A freight train is waiting here all night. There are plenty of places to sleep, and you go on in it to-morrow morning to Toledo."
He showed me an empty truck. I was very much touched, and I thanked him warmly.
"How do you believe," he asked in parting, "are you a Pole or are you Orthodox?"
"Oh," said I, "I'm not Russian, I've only lived some years there. I'm a British subject."
This somewhat perplexed him. But he smiled. "Ah well," said he, "good-bye, Sbogom—be with God," and we parted.
A little later he returned and said that if I were lonely and didn't mind a crush, the Magyars would not object to my presence. But by that time I had swept the sawdusty floor of the truck, made a bed, and was nearly asleep. "Thanks, brother," said I, "but I'm quite comfortable now."
The Russians are a peculiarly hospitable people. Their attitude of mind is charitable, and even in commercial America they retain much of the spirit that distinguishes them in Europe. I met a queer old Russian tramp in Eastern Pennsylvania; he exemplified what I mean. He was, however, rather an original.