This time he was seated by the foot-square,
dust-covered table assorting cigarettes. He had transferred my small
luggage--bag, coat, etc.--to the _lower_ berth, and had arranged his own
belongings in the upper one.
He sprang to his feet the instant he saw me.
The bow of the Sleeping-Car Manager to the Pigeon Charmer was but a bend
in a telegraph-pole to the sweep the bald-headed man now made me. I
thought his scalp would touch the car-floor.
"No, your Highness," he cried, "I insist"--this to my protest that I had
come last--that he had prior right--besides, he was an older man, etc.,
etc.--"I could not sleep if I thought you were not most
comfortable--nothing can move me. Pardon me--will not your Highness
accept one of my poor cigarettes? They, of course, are not like the ones
you use, but I always do my best. I have now a new cigarette-girl, and
she rolled them for me herself, and brought them to me just as I was
leaving St. Petersburg. Permit me"--and he handed me a little leather
box filled with Russian cigarettes.
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