y noon the next day I was again
on the road.

I looked with some complacency at my compact but wholly adequate little
caravan. My luggage, including a capacious Chinese cotton tent, was
scientifically stowed away in a small Russian baggage cart, a strong,
rough, two-wheeled affair drawn by two ponies, and driven by the Mongol
who was to guide me to Urga. My boy bestrode rather gingerly a strong,
wiry little Mongol pony, of the "buckskin" sort, gay with Western saddle
and red cloth. Wang bravely said he would do his best to ride the pony
when I did not care to use him, but he added pathetically that he had
never before mounted anything save a donkey. As for me, I sat proudly in
an American buggy, a "truly" one, brought from the United States to
Tientsin and then overland to Kalgan. It was destined for a Mongol
prince in Urga, and I was given the honour of taking it across the
desert. There are various ways of crossing Mongolia, in the saddle, by
pony, or camel cart; one and all are tiring; the desert takes its toll
of the body and the spirit. But here was a new way, and if comfort in
Gobi is obtainable it is in an American buggy; and with a pony for
change, no wonder I faced the desert without dismay.

The combined caravans looked very imposing as we moved off. All told, we
were one Swede, one American, one Chinese, seven Mongols, one Irishman
(Jack), and twelve horses. Three of the Mongols were lamas, the rest
were laymen, or "black men," so called from their unshorn black hair
worn in a queue. They were all dressed much alike, although one of the
lamas had clothes of the proper red colour, and all rode their sturdy
ponies well, mounted on high-peaked saddles.

After the first day we fell into our regular course, an early start at
six o'clock or so, long halt at noon, when tents were set up, and all
rested while the horses grazed, and then on again until the sun went
down below the horizon. During the hotter hours I took my ease in the
buggy, but in the early morning, and at the end of the day I rode. The
Mongols were gay young fellows, taking a kindly interest in my doings.
One, the wag of the party, was bent on learning to count in English, and
each time he came by me he chanted his lesson over, adding number after
number until he reached twenty. The last few miles before getting into
camp was the time for a good race. Then, riding up with thumbs held high
in greeting, they would cry to me "San?" ("All right?") and