h our store of _vodka_ to keep him
up to the mark, which I did so successfully that my driver started from
Sukharno in an advanced state of intoxication, after a bout of
fisticuffs with his aged host. But the little scoundrel would certainly
not have started in a sober condition.

We left Sukharno on the morning of April 6, in a strong north-westerly
gale accompanied by driving snow, but later in the day the sky
brightened and we forged ahead as rapidly as rough sea ice would permit.
Soon it became much colder, a favourable sign, for here a falling
thermometer invariably precedes clear, still weather. But it seemed ages
before we lost sight of Sukharno, and while it was still in sight I
often glanced back for a last look at that lonely snow-covered hut, for
it was our last link with civilisation, indeed with humanity. This is,
however, not strictly correct, for later in the day we passed the wooden
beacon erected by the Russian explorer Lieutenant Laptief in the year
1739. The tower, which stands on a prominent cliff, is still in a
remarkable state of preservation and is visible for a great distance
around. And talking of Laptief reminds me of other travellers who have
explored these frozen wastes. I had before leaving Europe ransacked the
book-stores of London and Paris, but had failed to obtain any practical
knowledge of the country which we were about to traverse. Nordenskjold's
"North-East Passage, or the Voyage of the _Vega_," was invariably
produced by every bookseller I questioned, but as the Swedish explorers
never left their ship, this work, as a guide, was quite useless to me.
So far, therefore, as finding the Tchuktchis was concerned I was much in
the position of a wild Patagonian who, set down at Piccadilly Circus, is
told to make his way unassisted to the Mansion House. For although
Mikouline affected a knowledge of the coast, I doubt if he knew much
more than I did. My literary researches showed me that the journey we
were undertaking had only twice been performed by Europeans, or rather
Americans (in a reverse direction) about twenty years ago. This was when
the U.S. surveying ship _Rodgers_ was destroyed by fire in the ice of
Bering Straits, and Captain Berry (her commander) and Mr. W. Gilder
(correspondent of the _New York Herald_) started off in midwinter to
report her loss, travelling through Siberia to Europe, which was
reached, after many stirring adventures, in safety.

The works of the earlier ex