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Such, at least, has been my experience of men in this line of business, not excepting the istrovoschik of St. Petersburg. I had the good fortune, during my ramble, to meet with a couple of fellow-passengers from Stettin. One of them was a rough, weather-beaten man of middle age, with rather marked features, but not an unkindly expression.
To a stranger unacquainted with localities, they are a great convenience. And here, you see, commences the gist of the story. On a certain occasion I called a drosky-man and directed him to drive me to the United States Consulate. Having never been there myself, I depended solely upon the intelligence and enterprise of the istrovoschik.
It was about three hundred yards from my original point of departure. Any other man in existence than my istrovoschik would have sunk into the earth upon seeing me make this astounding discovery. I knew it by certain landmarks a church and a garden. But he did not sink into the earth. He merely sat on his drosky as cool as a cucumber.
I have seen the most vagabond-looking istrovoschik, or drosky-drivers, jump out of their drosky and perform similar courtesies toward each other; and where men of this craft are given to politeness, one may rest assured that it must be a national characteristic. All seem to be the slaves of ceremony, from the Czar down to the Mujik.
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