s, the familiar word
"[Cyrillic: TRAKTIR]."

Pushing open the heavy swing-door (through which issues a whiff of hot air
charged with a combination of greasy smells that might knock down a
rhinoceros), our hero enters the long, low, dingy room, and is instantly
relieved of his coat and cap by half a dozen ready hands, while as many
voices greet him with the stereotyped formula, "Be happy,[B] barin! What
are you pleased to command?"

The "barin" is pleased to command a glass of tea, the customary order with
trakteer-frequenters, and it is obeyed almost as soon as given. Off skips
one of the shirt-sleeved brotherhood, and returns in a twinkling with a
small tray, on which stand a large teapot full of hot water, a smaller one
filled with strong, rich, aromatic tea, a big tumbler (the Russian
substitute for a tea-cup), and several lumps of sugar in a tiny saucer.

[B] This is the literal meaning of the Russian _Zdravstvuite!_ which
answers to our "Good-morning!"

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