relics of civilisation.  As the match, with a miniature fusillade of sharp reports, burst suddenly into flame, the nine startled heads instantly disappeared, and from beyond the curtain we could hear a chorus of long-drawn “tye-e-e’s” from the astonished natives, followed by a perfect Babel of animated comments upon this diabolical method of producing fire.  Fearful, however, of losing some other equally striking manifestation of the white men’s supernatural power, the heads soon returned, reenforced by several others which the report of the wonderful occurrence had attracted.  The fabled watchfulness of the hundred-eyed Argus was nothing compared with the scrutiny to which we were now subjected.  Every wreath of curling smoke which rose from our lips was watched by the staring eyes as intently as if it were some deadly vapour from the bottomless pit, which would shortly burst into report and flame.  A loud and vigorous sneeze from Dodd was the signal for a second panic-stricken withdrawal of the row of heads, and another comparison of respective experiences outside the curtain.  It was laughable enough; but, tired of being stared at and anxious for something to eat, we crawled out of our polog and watched with unassumed interest the preparation of supper.

Out of a little pine box which contained our telegraphic instruments, Viushin had improvised a rude, legless mess-table, which he was engaged in covering with cakes of hardbread, slices of raw bacon, and tumblers of steaming tea.  These were the luxuries of civilisation, and beside them on the ground, in a long wooden trough and a huge bowl of the same material, were the corresponding delicacies of barbarism.  As to their nature and composition we could, of course, give only a wild conjecture; but the appetites of weary travellers are not very discriminating, and we seated ourselves, like cross-legged Turks, on the ground, between the trough and the instrument-box, determined to prove our appreciation of Korak hospitality by eating everything which offered itself.  The bowl with its strange-looking contents arrested, of course, the attention of the observant Dodd, and, poking it inquiringly with a long-handled spoon, he turned to Viushin, who, as chef-de-cuisine, was supposed to know all about it, and demanded: 

“What’s this you’ve got?”

“That?” answered Viushin, promptly, “that’s kasha” (hasty pudding made of rice).

“Kasha!” exclaimed Dodd, contemptuously.  “It looks more like the stuff that the children of Israel made bricks of.  They don’t seem to have wanted for straw, either,” he added, as he fished up several stems of dried grass.  “What is it, anyhow?”

“That,” said Viushin again, with a comical assumption of learning, “is the celebrated ‘Jamuk chi a la Poosteretsk,’ the national dish of the Koraks, made from the original recipe of His High Excellency Oollcot Ootkoo Minyegeetkin, Grand Hereditary Taiyon and Vwisokee Prevoskhodeetelstvo—­”