When we came into the chill night, all the front of Smolny was one
huge park of arriving and departing automobiles, above the sound of
which could be heard the far-off slow beat of the cannon. A great
motor-truck stood there, shaking to the roar of its engine. Men were
tossing bundles into it, and others receiving them, with guns beside
them.
"Where are you going?" I shouted.
"Down-town-all over-everywhere!" answered a little workman,
grinning, with a large exultant gesture.
We showed our passes. "Come along!" they invited. "But there'll
probably be shooting-" We climbed in; the clutch slid home with a
raking jar, the great car jerked forward, we all toppled backward on
top of those who were climbing in; past the huge fire by the gate,
and then the fire by the outer gate, glowing red on the faces of the
workmen with rifles who squatted around it, and went bumping at top
speed down the Suvorovsky Prospect, swaying from side to side.... One
man tore the wrapping from a bundle and began to hurl handfuls of l handfuls of | |
papers into the air. We imitated him, plunging down through the dark
street with a tail of white papers floating and eddying out behind.
The late passerby stooped to pick them up; the patrols around
bonfires on the corners ran out with uplifted arms to catch them.
Sometimes armed men loomed up ahead, crying "_Shtoi!_" and raising
their guns, but our chauffeur only yelled something unintelligible
and we hurtled on.
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