There it was possible to scrounge something, earn, or simply steal.
It was the Transcaucasus.
The heartened concessionaires increased their pace.
In Passanaur, in that hot and thriving settlement with two hotels and several taverns, the friends cadged some bread and lay down under the bushes opposite the Hotel France, with its garden and two chained-up bear cubs.
They relaxed in the warmth, enjoying the tasty bread and a well-earned rest.
Their rest, however, was soon disturbed by the tooting of a car horn, the slither of tyres on the flinty road, and cries of merriment.
The friends peeped out.
Three identical new cars were driving up to the Hotel France in line.
The cars stopped without any noise.
Out of the first one jumped Persidsky; he was followed by Life-and-the-Law smoothing down his dusty hair.
Out of the other cars tumbled the members of the Lathe automobile club.
"A halt," cried Persidsky. "Waiter, fifteen shishkebabs!"
The sleepy figures staggered into the Hotel France, and there came the bleating of a ram being dragged into the kitchen by the hind legs.
"Do you recognize that young fellow?" asked Ostap. "He's the reporter from the Scriabin, one of those who criticized our transparent.
They've certainly arrived in style.
What's it all about?"
Ostap approached the kebab guzzlers and bowed to Persidsky in the most elegant fashion.
"Bonjour!" said the reporter. "Where have I seen you before, dear friend?
Aha!
I remember.
The artist from the Scriabin, aren't you?"
Ostap put his hand to his heart and bowed politely.
"Wait a moment, wait a moment," continued Persidsky, who had a reporter's retentive memory. "Wasn't it you who was knocked down by a carthorse in Sverdlov Square? "
"That's right.
And as you so neatly expressed it, I also suffered slight shock."
"What are you doing here? Working as an artist?"
"No, I'm on a sightseeing trip."
"On foot?"
"Yes, on foot.
The experts say a car trip along the Georgian Military Highway is simply ridiculous."
"Not always ridiculous, my dear fellow, not always.
For instance, our trip isn't exactly ridiculous.
We have our own cars; I stress, our own cars, collectively owned.
A direct link between Moscow and Tiflis.
Petrol hardly costs anything.
Comfort and speed.
Soft springs.
Europe!"
"How did you come by it all?" asked Ostap enviously. "Did you win a hundred thousand? "
"Not a hundred, but we won fifty."
"Gambling?"
"With a bond belonging to the automobile club."
"I see," said Ostap, "and with the money you bought the cars."
"That's right."
"I see.
Maybe you need a manager?
I know a young man.
He doesn't drink."
"What sort of manager?"
"Well, you know . . . general management, business advice, instruction with visual aids by the complex method. . ."