as not mutual, for a week of real Siberian travel will
render any man unrecognisable. "Pardon, M'sieu," began the stranger, and
I at once recognised the familiar British accent; "Je reste ici
seulement une heure." "Faites, monsieur," was my reply. But as I spoke
the fur-clad giant looked up from the valise he was unstrapping and
regarded me curiously. "Well, I'm d----d," he said, after a long pause,
"if it isn't Harry de Windt." But Talbot Clifton had to reveal his
identity, for months of hardship and privation, followed by a dangerous
illness, had so altered his appearance that I doubt if even his mother
would have recognised her son in that post-house at Vitimsk. Clifton had
already passed a year among the Eskimo on the Northern coast of the
American continent, when, in the summer of 1901, he descended the Lena
as far as its delta on the Arctic Ocean. Here he remained for several
months, living with the natives and accompanying them on their fishing
and shooting expeditions. In the fall of the year he returned to
Yakutsk, where he contracted a chill which developed into double
pneumonia, and nearly cost him his life. My friend, who was now on his
way home to England, had only bad news for us. The reindeer to the north
of Yakutsk were so scarce and so weak that he had only just managed to
struggle back there from Bulun, on the delta, a trifling trip compared
to the journey we were about to undertake. Moreover, the mountain passes
south of Verkhoyansk were blocked with snow, and, even if deer were
obtainable, we might be detained on the wrong side of the range for
days, or even weeks. All things considered, I would rather not have met
Clifton at this juncture, for his gloomy predictions seemed to sink into
the hearts of my companions--and remain there. However, a pleasant
evening was passed with the assistance of tobacco and a villainous
mixture, which my friend concocted with fiery _vodka_ and some wild
berries, and called punch. I doubt if, before this notable occasion,
Vitimsk had ever contained (at the same time) two Englishmen, a
Frenchman, and the writer, who may claim to be a little of both.

Talbot Clifton left early the next day, and before sunset the sleighs
were finished and we were once more on the road. From Vitimsk I
despatched telegrams to the Governor of Yakutsk and the London _Daily
Express_, and was surprised at the moderate charges for transmission. Of
course, the messages had to be written in Russian,