squatted by the fire, and opposite us sat our Tartar host, with his legs crossed in true Eastern style. We exchanged tobacco and cigarettes, lit each other's pipe—a symbol of courtesy in the East—and then Alexieff and the Tartar began to talk volubly in a Turkish dialect. For several minutes they talked, and the old Tartar listened with a phlegmatic air, puffing at his long pipe and passing occasional remarks. The conversation was upon horses and cattle, the price of sheep's-wool in Siberia, the prospect of the autumn fairs and of the Siberian wheat harvest, and the clemency or otherwise of the Weather. I longed to join in the conversation, but the Russian language was of no use as a means of communicating with the Tartars. I felt at a grievous disadvantage, for how could I enter into the life of these people if I could not communicate with them? But at any-rate, while I was in this tent, Alexieff showed me how easily the Russians get on with the native Tartars. They win the respect of Asiatic races as no one else can do. They talk with them in their own tongue at their own firesides, they sleep in their tents by night, they personally conduct business with them, exchanging wool for tea. Indeed it was evident to me that Alexieff had become intimate with these natives by dint of peaceful persuasion and gentle influences. How different from the overbearing tone of a British colonist or a British soldier in an Eastern colony. Though a Russian, Alexieff could without difficulty socially adapt himself to the Tartar. "Do you often spend much time in the year among these Tartars?" I asked. "Generally for three months in the summer I live in a yurt amongst their encampments, collecting wool and skins, and during that time I rarely see
