"Who's Feodor?"
"Feodor Himkoff." She paused a moment, and added, "He's mate on a
Russian vessel."
"A friend?"
The question went unnoticed. "Is there any you fancy?" she asked.
"Some o't may be outlandish eatin'."
"Do _you_ like these things?" I looked from her to the caviare.
"I don't know. I never tried. We keeps 'em, my man an' I, for all
poor come-by-chance folks that knocks."
"But these are dainties for rich men's tables."
"May be. I've never tasted--they'd stick in our ozels if we tried."
I wanted to ask a dozen questions, but thought it politer to accept
this strange hospitality in silence. Glancing up presently, however,
I saw her eyes still fixed on me, and laid down my knife.
"I can't help it," I said, "I want to know about Feodor Himkoff."
"There's no secret," she answered. "Leastways, there _was_ one, but
either God has condemned or forgiven afore now. Look at my man
there; he's done all the repentin' he's likely to do."
After a few seconds' hesitation she went on--
"I had a boy, you must know--oh! a straight young man--that went for
a soldier, an' was killed at Inkerman by the Rooshians. Take another
look at his father here; you think 'en a bundle o' frailties, I
dessay. Well, when the news was brought us, this poor old worm lifts
his fist up to the sun an' says, 'God do so to me an' more also,' he
says, 'if ever I falls across a Rooshian!' An' 'God send me a
Rooshian--just one!' he says, meanin' that Rooshians don't grow on
brambles hereabouts.
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