They got him his cigarette. They got him many cigarettes. They rolled them for him as fast as he could smoke them, meeting each other’s eyes blankly. The fellow from Scranton dug around in his boxes and cartons for food. The fire was poked in thick silence. A battered pot was set thereon. Coffee was sifted in from a scoop of open fingers down in a bag. They finally set food before him. They had sense enough not to prod the famished, emaciated man with damfool questions until he had partially recovered his strength. “War? Gad, boys—I’ve seen enough war! You guys at this end of the country don’t know anything about it. This is the first square meal I’ve eaten in seven months. I mean it. Seven months. Since last February when we left Omsk, going east.” It was pathetic, the way he ate that food. A square meal! “You been in Moscow—ever since?” “No. We reached Moscow, turned right round and walked right out again. I’ve been with the Czechs at Kolybelsk. I’m on my way out—to Harbin or Vladivostok—to see if I can’t hustle along some supplies. Medical supplies. They’re chopping off arms and legs down there with butcher knives and no anesthetics.” Ten minutes had elapsed before more was spoken. The sudden introduction of food into the man’s weakened vitals distressed him. He drank cup after cup of the vile coffee. But it was hot. Heat was what counted. Then more cigarettes. Eleven of them. “I know my clothes must smell like hell, boys, but if you’d seen what I’ve been thrown among, coming across from——” “I’ve got an extra outfit you can change into,” offered the man from Scranton. “Jake, turn some fresh water into that kettle and put it on. Forge’ll want to shave.” “Yes,” said Nat, with a choke of emotion at being among his countrymen again. “And which of you boys is a barber? Some one’s got to harvest this hair. Nothing fancy. Anything to get it off.” Nat took a sponge bath, nude at one side before them, at the huge samovar. He changed into clean garments. He removed his stringy beard with scissors and shaved his face. His hair was sheared. He came back and sat down at the stove. “When did they shoot Wiley? What for?”