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290 wooden houses, passed through several herds of cattle that sheepskin-coated boys were driving in from pasture, and finally stopped, amid a crowd of curious idlers, in front of the zémski kvartír, or official lodging-house, where we intended to spend the night. It was already five o'clock, — too late for a visit to the prison or an inspection of the mine, — and as soon as we had brought in our baggage and explained to the people of the house who we were, we set about the preparation of supper. Our resources were rather limited, but our peasant hostess furnished a steaming samovár with a little milk and butter, Mr. Frost produced, with triumph, a can of Californian preserved peaches, which he said he had bought in Strétinsk "for a holiday," and we thawed out and toasted on a stick, before a cheerful open fire, some of our frozen, sand-powdered bread. Altogether we made out so good a supper that Mr. Frost's imagination never once suggested to him the desirability of milk-toast, and we went to bed on the floor about nine o'clock — warm, comfortable, and happy.

Wednesday morning, after breakfast, we called upon Mr. Nésterof, the resident mining engineer, and Lieutenant-colonel Saltstein, the warden of the prison, for the purpose of getting permission to examine and investigate. Mr. Nésterof received us with generous Russian hospitality, insisted upon our taking a supplementary breakfast with him, and filled and refilled our glasses with vódka, cordial, Crimean wine, and Boston canned lemonade, until we feared that we should have to postpone our investigations indefinitely. Lieutenant-colonel Saltstein, who lived in a large, comfortable house full of blossoming oleanders, geraniums, and abutilon, then declared that we must drink another bottle of wine and eat a third breakfast with him, and it was after one o'clock when we finally set out for the prison and the mine.

Lieutenant-colonel Saltstein was a Finn by birth, and spoke Russian badly and with a strong German accent, but