They were a family from either
St. Helens, Runcorn, or Widnes, I forget which, all speaking the
broadest Lancashire. The navigation of the Neva being again
opened, they had come on a little trip to Russia on a tramp-
steamer belonging to a friend of theirs. There was the father, a
short, thickset man in shiny black broadcloth, with a shaven upper
lip, and a voluminous red "Newgate-frill" framing his face--
exactly the type of face one associates with the Deacon of a
Calvinistic-Methodist Chapel; there was the mother, a very grim-
looking female; and the son, a nondescript hobbledehoy with
goggle-eyes. It appeared that after their passports had been
inspected on landing, the goggle-eyed boy had laid his down
somewhere and had lost it. No hotel would take him in without a
passport, but these people were so obviously genuine, that I had
no hesitation in issuing a fresh passport to the lad, after
swearing the father to an affidavit that the protuberant-eyed
youth was his lawful son. After a few kind words as to the grave
effects of any carelessness with passports in a country like
Russia, I let the trio from Runcorn (or St.
Pages:
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315