besides, to think that the captain had a
daughter at all—a bright-eyed little maid,
with soft brown hair, perhaps; and I pictured
her to myself in the sky-blue merino sitting
on the captain's knee, while that giant mariner
told her stories of his voyages on the salt
seas, and forbore in love from saying
anything about the perilous ice and the magnetic
islands; nay, glossed over his shipwreck off
the Isle of Weazel, and made out the super-
cargo to be an angel of light rather than a
"tam tief." So I smuggled Captain Smith's
sky-blue merino through the Custom House
for him; and if I had no sorer sin than that
on my conscience, I should go to bed with a
light heart to-night.

In gratitude for this concession the
captain proposed a drink, to which I nothing
loth—for I was quite faint with the heat
and delay—consented. The refreshment-room
was a little mahogany box below, with a
cut-glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling,
about half-a-dozen sizes too large for
the apartment. There was a bar covered
with marble, and a grave waiter in black,
with a white neckcloth and white gloves:
a waiter who looked as if, for private or
political reasons, he was content to hand
round schnapps, but that he could be an
ambassador if he chose. There was a bar-
keeper, whose stock of French was restricted
to these three words, Eau-de-vie, Moossoo, and
Rouble-argent. He made liberal use of
these; and I remarked that, although it
was such a handsome pyroscaphe with a
chandelier and camp stools worked in Berlin
wool, the bar-keeper took very good care to
have the rouble-argent in his hand, before
he delivered the Eau-de-vie to a Moossoo.
Paying beforehand is the rule in Russia,
and this is why the Russians are such bad
paymasters. The little mahogany box is
crammed with passengers, talking, laughing,
and shaking hands with each other in pure
good-nature, as men will do when they come
to the end of a tedious journey. The wag
from the south of France was in immense
force, and incessantly ejaculated "Vodki!
Vodki!" capering about with a glass of that
liquor in his hand, and drinking and hob-
nobbing with everybody. I tried a glass of
vodki,* and immediately understood what
genuine blue ruin was. For this Vodki was
bright blue, and it tasted—ugh! of what did
it not taste? Bilge-water, vitriol, turpentine,
copal-varnish, fire, and castor-oil! There
was champagne, and there was Lafitte, too,
to be had, Cognac, brantewein, schnapps,
aniseed (of which the Russians are immoderately
fond), and an infinity of butter-brods
spread with caviare—no more, no more of
that!—dried belouga, smoked salmon, cold
veal, bacon, sardines, and tongue. I don't
know the exact figures of the tariff of prices;
but I know that there was never any change
out of a silver rouble.

* Or Vodka, both terminations seem to be used
indifferently.

In this convivial little den, Captain Smith
in his turn found a friend. This was no
other than Petersen; and nothing would
serve Captain Smith, but that I must be
introduced to Petersen. "De agent vor de
gompany that used do go do Helsingfors,"
he whispered. What company, and what the
deuce had I to do with the gompany, or
with Petersen? However, there was no help
for it, and I was introduced. Petersen
daguerreotyped, would have passed very well
for the likeness of Mr. Nobody; for his large
head was joined to his long legs, with
no perceptible torso, and with only a very
narrow interval or belt of red plush waistcoat
between. He had the face of a fox
who was determined to be clean shaved or to
die; and, indeed, there was not a hair left
on his face, but he had gashed himself
terribly in the operation, and his copper skin
was laced with his red oxide of lead blood.
He had a hat so huge and so furry in nap,
that he looked with it on like the Lord
Mayor's sword-bearer, and he may, indeed,
have been the mysterious Sword-bearer's
young man, of whom we heard so much
during the sittings of the City Corporation
Commission. When I was introduced to
him as "Mister aus England," (which was all
Captain Smith knew of my name) he opened
his wide mouth, and stared at me with his
fishy spherical eyes with such intensity, that
I fancied that the sockets were pop-guns, and
that he meant to shoot the aqueous globes
against me. The open mouth, I think, really
meant something, signifying that Petersen
was hungry, and desired meat; for the
Captain immediately afterwards whispered to
me that we had better offer Petersen a
beefsteak. Why any beefsteak of mine should
be offered to Petersen I know no more than
why the celebrated Oozly bird should hide
his head in the sand, and whistle through the
nape of his neck; but I was stupefied, dazed
with the vodki and the chandelier, the
confusion of tongues, and Petersen's eyesand hat,
and I nodded dully in consent. A beefsteak
in Russia means meat and potatoes, and bread,
cheese, a bottle of Moscow beer, and
any pretty little tiny kickshaws in the way
of pastry that may strike William Cook.
Petersen, who had accepted the offer by lifting
the swordbearer's hat, began snapping up
the food like a kingfisher; and as regards
the payment, the we (Captain Smith being
busily engaged somewhere else with his
boots) turned out to be me, and amounted to
a silver rouble. Three and threepence for
Petersen! He was to give me some valuable
information about hotels, and so forth, Petersen;
but his mouth was too full for him to
speak. He changed some money for me,
however, and gave me, for my remaining
thalers, a greasy Russian rouble note, and
some battered copecks. I am inclined to