Peter looked the room over. It was hard to believe that this tiny hut was the place in which he had worked with his father. In his memory it had taken on vaster proportions, yet in reality it was but a boxlike hovel. There was the same old adz-hewn plank bench well polished by years of use; the floor near the fire-pit had the very depressions worn into the wood by the legs of his father’s stitching-frame. And the same stone in the chimney on which his father had whetted the leather-knives! By that fire-pit Peter had spent many nights studying out Russian letters and words in battered almanacs. The place still smelled of leather—or Peter fancied it did. “Here are cigarettes of the best quality from Harbin, _gospodeen_,” said the old man, proffering a long tin box. “I keep them for such as are of the upper class. I must pay grease to Chinese for bringing these cigarettes in, and if you buy, you will be back for more—and twenty rubles for the box.” Peter sat down on the bench and pretended to examine the packet of cigarettes. But he was really looking at the little battered samovar on the little wooden table. Beside the samovar was a blackened piece of tin which was used to transfer hot coals from the fire-pit to the samovar. And the rude shelves with their packages of “Moscow biscuits,” matches, cigarettes, and holy cards for the holidays and the name days of children drew Peter’s eyes. The stock in trade was smoke-blackened and fly-specked by countless summers and winters. And the room reeked with smoke, which made the old man’s eyes red and watery. Peter saw that the cigarettes were of the cheapest grade. “Why do you double the price because I am a stranger?” asked Peter. “You know that half a ruble would buy these in the old days, and now with the money bad, ten is enough for them?” “God protect us! You speak the Czar’s Russian, though you wear a foreign coat! Have you come here to buy from me, or to find who is smuggling? There is no duty now, true, but I have to pay grease, as I said. I would say the same to the Ataman himself.” “But I know something about the price of cigarettes,” said Peter. He was willing enough to pay the price but he knew that reluctance would draw the old man out, and that an argument would probably develop an acquaintance which might be useful. “But the troubles have come and that makes the price high,” whined the old man. “Am I to starve among my cigarettes? There are few enough to buy these days, I tell you.” “I will pay, but you are an old robber,” said Peter, going into his pockets and fetching out two ten-ruble notes of Imperial money. The old man’s eyes danced, for he knew Imperials to be worth twice again the new paper money on which his prices were based.