The officer smiled faintly.  He was dull of understanding, but evidently I had made a joke, or perhaps I was a little crazed.

He turned on his heel.  “Sorry we turned you away,” he repeated, “but there are so many scoundrels about.  If you’re passing our way again be sure and call in.  Come whilst it’s light, however.”

III

A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT

Dzhugba is an aggregation of cottages and villas round about the estuary of a little river flowing down from the Caucasus to the Black Sea.  On the north a long cliff road leads to Novorossisk a hundred miles, and southward the same road goes on to Tuapse, some fifty miles from Maikop and the English oil-fields.

I arrived at the little town too late to be sure of finding lodging.  The coffee-house was a wild den of Turks, and I would not enter it; most private people were in bed.  I walked along the dark main street and wondered in what unusual and unexpected manner I should spend the night.  When one has no purpose, there is always some real providence waiting for the tramp.

The quest of a night’s lodging is nearly always the origin of mysterious meetings.  It nearly always means the meeting of utter strangers, and the recognition of the fact that, no matter how exteriorly men are unlike one another, they are all truly brothers, and have hearts that beat in unison.  Thus did it happen that I met my strange host of Dzhugba.

A hatless but very hairy Russian met me at a turning of the road, and eyeing me with lacklustre eyes asked me gruffly as a rude shopman might, “What do you want?”

“A lodging for the night.”

The peasant reflected, as if mentally considering the resources of the little town.  At last after a puzzling silence he put one fat hand on my shoulder, and staring into my face, pronounced his verdict—­

“The houses are all shut up and the people gone to bed.  There is no place; even the coffee-house is full.  But never mind, you can spend the night in a shed over here.  I shall find you a place.  No, don’t thank me; it comes from the heart, from the soul.”

He led me along to a lumber-room by the side of the plank pier.  It contained two dozen barrels of “Portlandsky” cement.  The floor was all grey-white and I looked around somewhat dubiously, seeing that cement is rather dirty stuff to sleep upon.  But, nothing abashed, my new friend waved his hand as if showing me into a regal apartment.

“Be at your ease!” said he.  “Take whatever place you like, make yourself comfortable.  No, no thanks; it is all from God, it is what God gives to the stranger.”

He thereupon ran out on to the sand, for the shed was on the seashore, and he beckoned me to follow.  To my astonishment, we found out there an old rickety bedstead with a much rent and rusted spring mattress—­apparently left for me providentially.  It was so old and useless that it could not be considered property, even in Russia.  It belonged to no one.  Its nights were over.  I gave it one night more.