"rooms for arrivers," but that, unfortunately, the full complement of "arrivers" had already arrived, and his rooms were all occupied. He suggested that we try the house of one Soldátof. As there seemed to be nothing better to do, away we went to Soldátof's, where at last, in the second story of an old weather-beaten log building, we found a large, well-lighted, and apparently clean room which was offered to us, with board for two, at seventy cents a day. We accepted the terms with joy, and ordered our driver to empty the pavóska and bring up the baggage. Our newly found room was uncarpeted, had no window-curtains, and contained neither wash-stand nor bed; but it made up for its deficiencies in these respects by offering for our contemplation an aged oleander in a green tub, two pots of geraniums, and a somewhat anemic vine of English ivy climbing feebly up a cotton string to look at itself in a small wavy mirror. Of course no reasonable traveler would complain of the absence of a bed when he could sit up all night and look at an oleander; and as for the washstand — it would have been wholly superfluous in a hotel where you could go out to the barn at any time and get one of the hostlers to come in and pour water on your hands out of a gangrened brass teapot.
As soon as our baggage had been brought in we lay down on the floor, just as we were, in fur caps, sheepskin overcoats, and felt boots, and slept soundly until after ten o'clock.
A little before noon, having changed our dress and made ourselves as presentable as possible, we went out to make a call or two and to take a look at the place. We did not think it prudent to present our letters of introduction to the political exiles until we could ascertain the nature of the relations that existed between them and the other citizens of the town, and could learn something definite with regard to the character and disposition of the isprávnik, or district chief of police. We therefore went to call first upon the well-known Siberian naturalist, Mr. N. M. Martiánof,
