OUTSIDE Kazbek village two sheep-dogs came up with a great show of ferocity, but I pacified them. I have discovered that they only do this because they are starved, and that if one aims them a bit of bread they become like lambs. The natives’ practice is perhaps more efficacious. They pick up as big a piece of rock as they can find, and hurl it point blank at the beast’s head. I only counsel the reader, should he find himself in such a predicament and not have bread, to offer them a stone.

I slept the night at the post-station at Kobi. Next morning, when I went out to an inn to get some tea, it was snowing, which rather surprised me, seeing that the day before had been so hot.

The inn is one of eight shops in Kobi. The innkeeper was of course delighted to see me. A customer in May is a rarity. I had hardly seated myself when a Russian lounger pounced on me and asked me the usual series of questions about my name, nationality, destination, business and so forth. He was dressed in home-made sheepskin trousers and a Russian national shirt.

“Ah,” said he, “the Englishmen know where all the gold and copper is, and the oil; they’ve got it all mapped out. The English know all. The Russians keep all—that, my friend, is politics. The Caucasus is the brightest brilliant in the Russian crown. We shall keep it to the last. When all the rest is worked out we shall begin. Here there is everything: gold, silver, coal, copper, iron—what you like. Why, I know villages where there is wild petroleum; it spurts out naturally, and the natives have used it for years for cooking and lighting. Here at Kobi we have seltzer water so strong that no one can bottle it, and we drink it by the pailful. Full of iron, my friend, that’s what makes us all strong. Nobody ever dies here; that’s because of our springs.”

Whilst I was having my tea I got him to speak of the road. He was evidently a chatterbox.

“They spend ten thousand roubles a year on the road,” said he. “But that is nearly all absorbed by overseers and generals; the poor working men get little.”

“That also is politics,” said I.

“Yes, we are all very poor,” put in the innkeeper. “Eight shops we have, and not one makes more than threepence a day profit. You see we have eight months winter.”

“It will be better soon,” I urged. “The summer is coming. But I see you don’t know much about business. Now I know comparatively little about trade, but my little finger knows better than you do how to manage a shop like this.”

The shopkeeper blinked his eyes; he was an Ossetine. Then the little man in the sheepskin trousers broke in, “You would like to introduce American methods, but you don’t understand how poor they are. They never have any money in the winter. You couldn’t get change for a rouble in the whole village now. They spend all they get in the summer, and live on credit all the winter. They owe you a fortune, Achmet, I’ll be bound.”

“It is only too true,” assented the shopkeeper.

The little man went on: “Why, they even buy two calf-skins of wine in the autumn when they have money, and that lasts the family through the winter. Not even an Englishman could do trade here.”

“Well,” I said, “what I meant was, soon the summer will be here, and crowds of Georgians and Armenians, Russians and Persians will be on the road. Now, this being the first shop in the village, it stands best chance. But why does our friend call the inn a drapery establishment, and fill his window with oil-lamps and cheese?”

The shopkeeper smiled with pride, and pointed out that he was the only draper and lamp-seller in the village. Whereupon I went on instructing him.

“If you are the only draper, then everyone in the village knows that fact, and there is no need to paint it up as your sign. But travellers don’t want to buy drapery or lamps. What you need to do is to write up in big letters,

Then you’d make more than threepence a day. You ought to try and get Russian visitors here: have some rooms that could be let as lodgings, talk about the ozone in the air and the springs in the rocks.”

They listened solemnly, and the innkeeper promised to paint out his “drapery” sign. I had four glasses of tea. I purchased two pounds of bread for my journey, and all this cost but fivepence. Still, if he had no more customers that day I supposed his takings would be up to the average. I am sure they had a lively topic of conversation for days to come about a real Englishman who had shown them the way to make the village a “going concern.”

It was interesting to observe the impression made by the announcement that I was an Englishman. Englishmen are rather a myth in these parts. The wonders of London and New York must be taken on trust, without vouchers, like the miracles of the Bible, and I daresay that when one of us does turn up they take him as a sign which is not only sufficient guarantee for the reality of modern civilisation, but also for any points in their religion of which they may have doubt. It is, however, much more likely that they would doubt civilisation than the Bible, and they would accept the authenticity of Elijah’s chariot sooner than that of flying machines.