try as Siberia, and that, moreover, no Russian editor would dare to look at a fire—much less run to one—without written permission from the press-censor, countersigned by the chief of police, and indorsed by the procureur of the Holy Synod and the glávni nachálnik of the Department of Public Safety. In my judgment, therefore, it was probable that the house was the residence of the tailor who cut out and fitted uniforms for the firemen whenever it became necessary for them to act in their official capacity. It would have a very demoralizing tendency, of course, and would unsettle the public mind, if a fire should be extinguished by men who passed buckets in their shirt-sleeves. It was of the utmost importance, therefore, that the firemen should be able to find the house of the duly authorized tailor and get their uniforms made at the earliest possible moment after the sounding of the alarm. I tried to make Mr. Frost see what a terrible state of things would exist if there were no picture of scissors to designate the tailor's house, and the firemen should be unable to find it when a fire had broken out in the next street and they wanted their uniforms cut and fitted instantly. But the graphic picture that I drew of the horrors of such a situation did not seem to touch his callous sensibilities. He had not lived long enough in Russia to really feel and appreciate the importance of getting into a uniform before undertaking to do anything.
As we approached Tiumén we left behind us the open plains and the beautiful farming country that had so much surprised and delighted us, and entered a low, swampy, and almost impenetrable forest, abounding in flowers, but swarming with mosquitoes. The road, which before had been comparatively smooth and dry, became a quagmire of black, tenacious mud, in which the wheels of our heavy tárantás sank to the hubs, and through which our progress was so slow that we were four hours in traversing a single stretch of about eighteen miles. Attempts had apparently
