270 A SUMMER ON THE YENESEI 



and a few minutes later, Joseph Prokopchuk knocked at 

 the door with a huge packet of letters — the first that 

 we had received since we left England at the end of 

 May. I felt just like a child with a stocking full of 

 toys on Christmas morning, as I sat up in bed and tore 

 open letter after letter. Of course they had all been 

 written before the war had broken out, and our joy in 

 reading them was somewhat tempered by our anxiety 

 to know what was going on now in Europe. 



Before we had time to open them all, there was a 

 clank of oars outside, and the Prokopchuks appeared, 

 ready to row us and our luggage to the steamer. Hence 

 we left in such haste that we had no time to say a 

 sentimental farewell to the little hut which had been 

 our home for two months. The Giant was wearing his 

 fur cap, and had put on his best shirt under his old 

 white sakooy. We could not help looking at him, but 

 he only stared at his boots as he tugged at his oar in 

 his patient, ox-like way. The only fear was that Vassilli 

 should give away the plot. Our henchman dearly loved 

 to hug a secret, and he cast such meaning glances, and 

 smiled such knowing smiles, that if Gerasim Androvitch 

 had not been the worse for liquor, he must have sus- 

 pected that something was afoot, even if he had not 

 already guessed it from the woebegone expression of 

 little Michael, the servant, who, like everybody else in 

 Golchika, loved Joseph Gerasim vitch. 



Ten minutes later, and we were on the Oryol again, 

 feeling as if it were only yesterday that we had left it. 

 There was Captain Ello, and his wife, as benevolent as 

 ever. Nicolai, the waiter, with his hat as usual on the 



