You are no more a Bolshevik than I am. You
are General Count Boob von Boobenstein."
The general sank down in his chair, his face pale beneath
its plaster of rouge.
"Hush!" he said. "If they learn it, it is death."
"My dear Boob," I said, "not a word shall pass my lips."
The general grasped my hand. "The true spirit," he said,
"the true English comradeship; how deeply we admire it
in Germany!"
"I am sure you do," I answered. "But tell me, what is
the meaning of all this? Why are you a Bolshevik?"
"We all are," said the count, dropping his assumed rough
voice, and speaking in a tone of quiet melancholy. "It's
the only thing to be. But come," he added, getting up
from his chair, "I took you once through Berlin in war
time. Let me take you out again and show you Berlin under
the Bolsheviks."
"I shall be only too happy," I said.
"I shall leave my pistols and knives here," said
Boobenstein, "and if you will excuse me I shall change
my costume a little. To appear as I am would excite too
much enthusiasm. I shall walk out with you in the simple
costume of a gentleman. It's a risky thing to do in
Berlin, but I'll chance it."
The count retired, and presently returned dressed in the
quiet bell-shaped purple coat, the simple scarlet tie,
the pea-green hat and the white spats that mark the German
gentleman all the world over.
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