On this afternoon as Richard smoked a solitary cigar and reviewed the
thin procession of foot passengers trudging through the snow beneath his
window, he was attracted by the loud talk of a coterie about a table.
The center of the group was Count Storri--a giant Russ. This Storri did
not belong to the Russian legation, did not indeed reside in town, and
had been vouched into the club by one of his countrymen. He had onyx
eyes, with blue-black beard and mustaches which half covered his face,
and hair as raven as his beard. Also he valued himself for that a
favorite dish with him was raw meat chopped fine with peppers and oil.

Storri's education--which was wide--did not suffice to cover up in him
the barbarian, videlicet, the Tartar--which was wider; and when a trifle
uplifted of drink, it was his habit to brag profoundly in purring,
snarling, half-challenging tones. Storri boasted most of his thews,
which would not have disgraced Goliath. He was at the moment telling a
knot of gaping youngsters of monstrous deeds of strength. Storri had
crushed horseshoes in his hand; he had rolled silver pieces into bullets
between thumb and finger.

"See, you children, I will show what a Russian can do!" cried Storri.

Storri came over to the fireplace, the rest at his heels. Taking up the
poker--a round half-inch rod of wrought iron--he seized it firmly by one
end with his left hand and with the right wound it twice about his left
arm. The black spiral reached from hand to elbow; when he withdrew his
arm the club poker was a Brobdingnagian corkscrew.

The youngsters stared wonder-bitten. Then a mighty chatter of
compliments broke forth, and Storri swelled with the savage glory of his
achievement.