“Don’t matter; you must be decorated; you may as well do it, and be done with it.”
“But look at my clothes, man! I’m as wet as a drowned rat!”
“Served you right! What business had you jumping into the water after a fool that wanted to drown himself?”
“I wish I’d let him,” said Stanton devoutly; “but just you tell these chaps to let me go or else they’ll ’ear of it; tell them my master will go to the ambassador and get them flogged all round; tell them that, and see what comes of it.”
“No good. The law is the law. Good morning to you; take a friend’s advice, and keep your skin dry next time”; and, nodding to Stanton, he touched his horses and was off at a pace.
There was nothing for it but to resign himself to his fate. Stanton ceased all resistance, and let himself be led to the altar where glory awaited him in the form of a yellow spit. He was marched on to a large, barrack-like building; two sentries were mounting guard over its ponderous iron gate. He passed through them and was marched from bureau to bureau, addressed by several officials in every tongue under the sun, it seemed to him, till they came to the right one, requested to record his name, age, and state of life in several ominous-looking books, and on each occasion was embraced and shaken hands with by the presiding genius of the bureau; at last he was brought into the presence of a gold-laced and highly decorated individual, who handed him a written document, very stiff and very long, and with this a knot of ribbon. Stanton without more ado was stuffing both into the pocket of his soaked pantaloons, when the gold-laced gentleman exclaimed with friendly warmth, “Oh! you must permit me to place the spit upon your breast!” Upon which the Englishman recoiled three steps with a scowl of disgust, and bade him do it if he dared. The official, apparently surprised to see his polite offer met so ungraciously, forbore to press it, and demanded the fee. “The fee!—what fee?” He explained that a fee was always paid on receipt of a decoration. Stanton declined paying it, for the substantial reason that he had no money; his luggage had been lost on the railway; so had his master’s. The polite gentleman was very sorry to hear of their misadventure, but the law was inexorable—every man who performed that noble feat of saving a Russian’s life should be decorated, and the decoration involved a fee.
“Then what in the name of the furies do you want me to do?” cried the exasperated Stanton; “I can’t coin any, can I?”
No; this was not a practical alternative, but very likely his master could devise one; he would have no difficulty in getting credit for the amount; any one in St. Petersburg would be happy to accommodate a milord with so small a sum, or indeed any sum.
Stanton had nothing for it but to write a line to the Peterhof explaining his pitiable position, and entreating his master to come to the rescue without delay.
It was late in the evening when this missive was handed to Clide. The landlord, with the utmost alacrity, placed the coffers of the Peterhof at his disposal, and sent for a carriage to convey him to the scene of his valet’s distress.