of directors--some of them knew too little, others too much. It seemed
to be Kosmaroff's mission to keep them up to a certain mark by his
boundless optimism, his unquestioning faith in a good cause.

"It is all very well for you," said one, a little fat man with beady
eyes. Fat men with beady eyes are not usually found in near proximity
to danger of any sort--"you, who are an aristocrat, and have nothing to
lose!"

Kosmaroff ate his bread with an odd smile. He did not look towards the
speaker. He knew the voice perhaps, or he knew that the great truth that
a man's character is ever bubbling to his lips, and every spoken word is
a part of it running over.

"There are many who can be aristocrats some day--with a little
good-fortune," he said, and the beady eyes brightened.

"I lost five at Praga," muttered an elderly man, who had the subdued
manner of the toiler. "That is enough for me."

"It is well to remember Praga," returned Kosmaroff, in a hard monotone.
"It is well to remember that the Muscovites have never kept their word!
There is much to remember!"

And a murmur of unforgetfulness came from the listeners. Kosmaroff
glanced sideways at two men who sat shoulder to shoulder staring
sullenly across the river.

"I may be an aristocrat by descent," he said, "but what does that come
to? I am a raftsman. I work with my hands, like any other. To be a