glance, discovered a crowd that was collecting fifty yards down the
street. Key chuckled and began to run in the direction of the crowd;
Rose thereupon also chuckled and his short bandy legs twinkled beside
the long, awkward strides of his companion.

Reaching the outskirts of the crowd they immediately became an
indistinguishable part of it. It was composed of ragged civilians
somewhat the worse for liquor, and of soldiers representing many
divisions and many stages of sobriety, all clustered around a
gesticulating little Jew with long black whiskers, who was waving his
arms and delivering an excited but succinct harangue. Key and Rose,
having wedged themselves into the approximate parquet, scrutinized him
with acute suspicion, as his words penetrated their common
consciousness.

"--What have you got outa the war?" he was crying fiercely. "Look
arounja, look arounja! Are you rich? Have you got a lot of money
offered you?--no; you're lucky if you're alive and got both your legs;
you're lucky if you came back an' find your wife ain't gone off with
some other fella that had the money to buy himself out of the war!
That's when you're lucky! Who got anything out of it except J. P.
Morgan an' John D. Rockerfeller?"

At this point the little Jew's oration was interrupted by the hostile
impact of a fist upon the point of his bearded chin and he toppled
backward to a sprawl on the pavement.

"God damn Bolsheviki!" cried the big soldier-blacksmith, who had
delivered the blow. There was a rumble of approval, the crowd closed
in nearer.