He proceeds to fill the glass, with scientific nicety of proportion, from both pots at once, launches into it a thin slice of lemon, and then pronounces the talismanic word "Gotovo!" (ready). While sipping his tea the inquirer after truth allows his eye to wander over the room, and sees in every feature the "interior" displayed by every Russian trakteer from the White Sea to the Black--bare whitewashed walls, toned down to a dull gray by smoke and steam and grease; plank floor; double windows, with sand strewn thickly between them; rough, battered-looking chairs and tables, literally on their last legs; and close-cropped waiters in dingy shirt-sleeves, with flat, wide-mouthed faces that look very much like a penny with a hole through it. And the _habitues_ of the place are as queer as the place itself. Were Asmodeus at our explorer's elbow, he would whisper that these two gaunt, sallow men opposite him, whose flat heads and long lithe frames remind one irresistibly of a brace of Indian snakes, and whose conversation seems to consist entirely of criticisms upon the weather or good-humored personal "chaff," are in reality concluding a bargain which involves many thousands of roubles; that this chubby little man near the door, the very picture of artless simplicity, is one of the keenest and most skilful speculators on the Moscow Exchange; and that yonder couple of greasy, unkempt, lumpish-looking men in shabby brown coats, who are devouring salted cucumbers in the farther corner, can put down half a million dollars apiece any day they like. Suddenly the attention of the taker of notes is attracted by the mention of a familiar subject, the Franco-German war, and, turning round, he sees at the table next his own two men in earnest conversation--the one a big, florid, red-bearded fellow with a huge crimson comforter round his bull neck, who is laying down the law in the most _ex-cathedra_ fashion to his neighbor, a meek-looking little man with gray hair and bright, restless eyes, not unlike those of a squirrel. At first, the surrounding buzz of conversation and the clatter of plates and glasses allow him to catch only a stray word of the dialogue every here and there; but after a time a temporary lull in the hub-bub brings out in strong relief the following words, spoken with all the confidence of a man accustomed to be listened to: "Every one has his turn, Yakov Andreievitch (James the son of Andrew), and no man can escape what is ordained for him. The Nyemtzi (Germans) have beaten the French. Well, what then? By and by, please God, the French will beat the Nyemtzi. 'To live a lifetime is not to cross a field,' and everything must change sooner or later."