THE GOOSING 213 
bar snapped, but Verrmyah, splitting a thong with his 
axe and fitting it in, contrived to jam the tenon up. 
We had much the same difficulty with the Peinmur 
river, but rose at last the south side of the plateau, on 
the northern edge of which we had lain in Pesanka 
camp. And here we came almost at once upon a very 
different and unlooked-for scene. It might almost have 
been Derby Day in a corner of Epsom Downs. 
I looked in vain for Uano’s choom. Instead of it I 
found a rough semicircle of gaily-coloured gypsy tents, 
blue, red and double-coloured, and not a single Samoyed 
I knew. 
Men, women, and children were scattered all about, 
busy as bees as usual; but they were all new faces. 
‘Where is my choom?’ I asked Verrmyah, who had 
told me by the way that they had a beautiful place for me. 
‘ There is no choom ; it is a tent ;’ returned Verrmyah, 
and roared with laughter when I looked surprised. 
With that he leads me to a little tent, and pointing at 
me, simply says, ‘Pud-drr’—‘ yours’; or more correctly 
‘thou.’ 
(Notice the word Pud-drr, literally ‘ he, is used 
also for the second personal pronoun, but then is accom- 
panied by a point at the object. In this way the 
Samoyeds, like most civilised peoples, avoid the use of 
the direct. ‘ thou.’) 
So I lifted up the flap and looked inside. It was not 
encouraging. 
