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...  The city,—­and I shall continue to call it a city,—­was dark and dreary, and so cold that I resolved to spend the night at the depot where it was warm at least.  I bought some hot tea and a large loaf of bread at the buffet, and, as a sick and poor soldier who knows his place, I sat in a corner.

There were some people in the station—­mostly peasants, one could easily recognize such in them; quietly talking and drinking tea with dignity and care and biting their sugar with the force of explosions.  They never put their sugar into the tea-tumblers.  Later a man with a disagreeable face entered the room and looked around.  This was not a peasant, I said to myself,—­he would not take off his hat.  The newcomer was evidently looking for me, as when he noticed me, he first bought some tea and a sandwich, and then, as if there were no other place in the room, picked out a seat near me.  “An enemy,” I thought to myself and buried my face in my supper.

The man wanted to talk, but evidently felt embarrassed.

“Cold outside, isn’t it?” he asked.

A foreign intonation.  No accent, however.  A Pole or a Russian-German.

“Hm, hm, very!”

“Yes, severe climate, dog’s cold.  Going to stay in Tumen, or plan to go further?” he asked after a pause.

“Going to stay, or going further,—­what do you ask for?  But if it interests you—­going to stay for a while.  If I croak here, or somewhere else—­you aren’t going to attend my funeral.  So what’s the big idea?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing!  You see I am a stranger here and lately live practically at the depot.  Am looking for a man by the name of Vysotsky, so I ask almost everybody for the man.”

“Vysotsky?” I asked, assuming an air of astonishment, “Vysotsky?” (Marchenko and his crowd flashed through my mind, especially in connection with my mission)—­“no, I don’t think that I know anyone by that name.”

“Here, here,” the man laughed, shoving me with his shoulder, “lay it out, old man, you must know him”

“No, Comrade” I responded.  “You probably take me for some one else, indeed.  I am Syvorotka of the 7th Hussars.  We had a man by name Vysotsky, a sub-lieutenant, but I don’t think it’s the one you are looking for:  the Vysotsky I knew has been taken prisoner, at Lvov, or at the Sziget Pass ... yes, at Sziget Pass, of course.  Vysotsky, Vysotsky, what was the Christian name, perhaps that would help me out?”

“You white-collared trash!” my man suddenly became angry, “you can’t fool me about his first name.  Don’t be too slick.  I’ll tell you” (he started to whisper very low and knocked on the table with his finger) “they will jail you right now, if you don’t tell me why in the devil’s name you came here.  Aren’t you going to tell me?  No?  Very well, I’ll fix you for life, you damned Russian swine!  Hope you’ll choke on your tea!”

That’s how he ended his friendly wishes, and left me in a fury.