His mother paid little attention to her child, however, and her interest lay in the bubbling cauldron where the soup was cooking.  “You have a very clever boy,” I said, but she did not agree with me.  His pranks and high spirits were to her evidence of stupidity.  I must say I felt we were the stupid party, and the boy was a little wonder.  We went on gossiping, and presently he proved us stupid.

He started up with one finger to his ear and then darted out, leaving the door open and letting the steppe air pour in.

The mother listened, and then said discontentedly after a pause, “That child is not usual.”

The boy came back with fifteen shaggy customers, however; fifteen red-faced waggoners, half-frozen in their sheepskins, and all clamoured for food and drink.

The boy, all excitement, danced up to me and said, “Have you a light hand?  You must have a light hand!” I didn’t know what he meant, but he was off before I had time to ask.

He began serving tea and cutting bread and asking questions.  Did any one want soup?  Nobody wanted soup at first, but at the boy’s solicitations nine of them agreed to have portions at twopence a plateful.  The mother persuaded others to have pickled herrings, cheese, wine.

The inn was of two rooms:  one a bedroom and retiring-room without a door.  The Ikon of this room served the economical hostess for both rooms.

The waggoners were all surly till they had fed.  “Show me where we can bow to God,” said one of them very gruffly, not seeing the Ikon.  The little boy led him and all his mates into the little bedroom, and they all bowed their hairy faces and crossed themselves before the Ikon of St. Nicholas.

Then they returned and consumed the soup and the herrings and bread and cheese and wine and tea.  I looked on.  My hostess was turning a pretty penny.  I was looking on at a very pleasant and surprising interlude.

Every now and then one of the mouzhiks would stump out to see how the horses were, for they had a long train of waggons carrying building materials to the Tsar’s estate of Livadia.  At length all had supped, and they came up to the counter one by one and thanked the hostess heartily, paying her the while.

Only one of the men was dissatisfied—­the last one to come up.

“Your soup is dear,” said he.

“Dear!  What do you mean?” said the woman.  “How much would you pay for such soup in Yalta, and with beef at fivepence a pound, too?”

“In Yalta they give one soup.”

“And here!”

“Here ... as God wills ... something....”  The mouzhik slammed the door.

“There’s a man,” said my hostess, but she wasn’t enraged.  Had she not just sold the family’s soup for eighteenpence, and made tenpence profit on it, and wouldn’t her husband be pleasantly surprised when he saw there were three shillings more on the counter than usual?  It was not often that such custom had come to her.