The Councillors of Falconhoe by Fred M. White

It was three days later, at a certain given spot, just inside the Polish frontier, where Vickers idled outside a small cafe with a glass before him, as if he had no object in the world except, perhaps, the search for work. He was dressed in the peasant costume of the country, with a sort of rough woollen blouse and a greasy fur cap on the back of his head. He sat there for a long time, looking down a straight deserted road, until at length he descried on the horizon a human figure slouching idly in the direction of the little cafe. There was no one in sight at the moment, save the anxious, worried proprietor and his thin wife. Indeed, Vickers was the first customer they had had all the morning. It was a land of poverty and desolation, and the owner of the cafe must have been hard put to it to make a living in a land from whence the population had been stripped almost bare by the tide of war. It would be a long, long time indeed before that ravaged slice of country would be happy and prosperous again.

The man on the road slouched towards the cafe with half-hesitation, as if he had a mind to pass it altogether. Then he lurched up to the wooden bench, where Vickers was seated, and dropped as if utterly worn out by his side. He was dressed very much like Vickers himself, with greasy, shabby clothing and a dirty face, which had been innocent of a razor for days. He uttered just one word under his breath, and Vickers put out his hand.