As Johnny Thompson stood in the dark doorway of the gray stonecourt-yard he shivered. He was not cold, though this wasSiberia—Vladivostok—and a late winter night. But he was excited.
Before him, slipping, sliding, rolling over and over on the hard packedsnow of the narrow street, two men were gripped in a life and deathstruggle. They had been struggling thus for five minutes, each strivingfor the upper hand. The clock in the Greek Catholic church across theway told Johnny how long they had fought.
He had been an accidental and entirely disinterested witness. He knewneither of the men; he had merely happened along just when the rowbegan, and had lingered in the shadows to see it through. Twelve, yes,even six months before, he would have mixed in at once; that had alwaysbeen his way in the St