“Those are what we may call Russian hieroglyphics, Harry,” said Fred; “I daresay, now, that the Egyptians had something of the sort in their shop windows before they knew how to write.”
“It is a capital sort of language,” replied Harry, “because, you see, the mujicks, who do not know how to read, and we, who don’t understand Russian, both understand it equally well.”
“The best universal language,” remarked Fred. “If something of the sort were established regularly in the world, it would save a great deal of trouble. But I say, Harry, where have we got to? I am sure we have never been here before.”
They had been so amused that they had not remarked the change in the style of architecture of the streets through which they were passing. They were now in a region of low houses, although of considerable size, mostly on one floor, very few having two storeys.
“I am sure this is not the way to the English Quay.”
Harry, who sat in front, on this began to pull the ishvoshtstick by his badge, and then by his sleeve, to make him stop. The fellow either would not or could not understand that they wanted to stop. At last he pulled up, and looked over his shoulder.
“I say, Harry, do you remember what they call the English Quay? For, on my word, I have forgotten it,” exclaimed Fred in some little dismay, feeling very like Mustapha in the tale of The Forty Thieves, when he forgets the talismanic words, “Open sesame.”
“I’m sure I don’t know exactly, but I’ll try and see if I can’t make the fellow understand,” answered Harry. “I say, you cabdrivowitch, cut away to the English Quayoi!”
The man shook his head and sat still, as much as to say, “I don’t understand you, my masters.”
“What’s to be done? He doesn’t seem to think my Russian very first-rate,” said Harry.