The velvet covering on the seats of cars is all ripped off. I heard that the Bolshevists took the coverings to make clothing. At a theater I saw many women in gowns of blue, gray and red velvet, and discovered that the blues had come from first-class cars, the gray from second-class cars, and the red from third-class cars. Combined with old lace curtains, the stuff made rather attractive gowns. A British colonel, coming up from Vladivostok with regular troops bound for the front, wired to Chita to the “British consul” to arrange for four hundred baths, twenty buckets, two hundred loaves of bread and communion service of the Church of England for four hundred men. He also stated that he wanted a hall in which the men could eat their Christmas dinner, the hall to be decorated with holly and other greenwood stuff. The British officer who opened the telegram did his best, but there was a hitch about the communion service, because the Russian church could not give communion to non-communicants. When the colonel arrived, he cited the fact that a Russian bishop had once arranged with a bishop of the Church of England for mutual exchanges of courtesy in regard to communion in emergencies. His men marched to a Russian church for services that day, but did not receive communion. They were taken out of their crowded box-cars, bathed and fed and preached to, and paraded through the streets of Chita with fifes and drums. * * * * * Early one morning I was summoned to the military prison of a certain town. A note was brought to me by a smart young Cossack, who clicked his heels, saluted most deferentially, and remained at attention in the best military manner while in my room. He said the note was from the prison commandant, and when my orderly had read it, he said my presence at the prison was requested. We drove to the prison, and informed the sentry at the gate that we wished to see the commandant. Thereupon we were ushered into a spacious corridor, crowded with prisoners. A young man pushed his way out of the crowd and accosted me in Russian. I told him that I could not talk with him till I had seen the commandant. He then said in perfect English: “I am an American--I am going to be shot. You must save me.” It was my business to protect Americans. “What part of the United States are you from?” I asked. “New York City--Grand Street.” “Were you born in New York City?” “No. I was born in Russia. But I am an American. You tell ’em they can’t shoot me.” “When were you naturalized in America?” “Well, I didn’t take out any papers. But I lived in New York nine years.” “Then Russia is your country. When did you come back?” “About a year ago.” “Why did you come?” “I wanted to help my country.” Now the tears were running down his face.