And my first meals in Chita made me suspect that there was much truth in the reports that Mother Hubbardsky’s cupboard was bare. I went to dinner with my chief the first evening in the city. We sought the best restaurant and scanned its menu with care; and after considerable pains we were able to order a meal--a modest one--at a cost of about twelve rubles each. Our rubles had cost us a dollar for eight in Vladivostok. So our dinner amounted to a dollar and a half each. Then we spied four scrawny, spotted little apples pyramided on a plate on the counter. We ordered them, ate them, and asked for our bill. The apples alone had cost us thirty-six rubles--or a dollar and twelve cents each! An officer has to pay for his own food. In Vladivostok at the officers’ mess, three meals a day cost a dollar and a quarter. In Chita, six dollars a day, without apples, was the prospect ahead. My orderly was allowed a dollar and a quarter a day for his subsistence. With that, he could buy exactly one poor meal. The situation was rapidly losing its humorous aspect. After all, was Vladivostok right about that famine? Yet all along the line I had seen an abundance of food for people who seemed to be eating all the time. Evidently there was a wrench in the machinery somewhere. It was a case of “Who’s looney now?” We stocked up immediately with rye bread, cheese and dried fish--all purchased, the orderly said, from peasant women near the station. The faithful Werkstein had brought with him a little sugar, some tea, chocolate in bars, and a few cans of army beef. He turned my wardrobe in the hotel room into a pantry; and with a samovar from the kitchen, prepared my meals. It was well below freezing in the room, and I usually wore my furs. There were forests all around the city. But no one could be hired to cut wood. Was not everybody free? (How I wished that our Congress would ship me a consignment of those parlor Bolshevists who were in the United States preaching the beauties of Bolshevism!) One evening, some of Semenoff’s officers asked me to go to their garrison mess. “A little Russian supper,” they explained rather apologetically. The supper began at nine. We sat down at a tremendous table covered with dishes, and glasses in groups. There was a startling array of bottles. Presently a delicious soup was served. Then came soldier-servants bearing great salvers on which were fishes the size of young whales--decorated with fantastically carved vegetables. Next arrived coveys of quail and partridge. Viands strange and barbaric followed--dishes that suggested China and Arabia, others of Cossack origin. O shade of Lucullus! O Herbert Hoover!