“Poor Pokrin!” he says presently, reminded of the man by the beverage. “He made over a hundred thousand roubles from selling things to the Gigin. But now he can’t think of any more things to sell. You saw the Gigin’s new droshky? But that isn’t like selling an elephant or an electric-light plant. Pokrin is down to pelicans and fountain-pens.” He shakes his head sympathetically, and reaches anew for the vodka-bottle. He goes on reminiscing, half-cynically, half-regretfully, of the past, while dinner to serve the appetite of a Cyclops keeps coming on. In the midst of the repast cries arise outside. A Mongol with a flow of language is heard calling aloud for “_Bulun Darga!_” (fat policeman.) “They are after me,” says the mayor resignedly. The Mongol comes hurtling in, pushing past the Chinese boy. “Fat policeman,” he cries; “Red Mustache and Long Nose and Blue Coat are drunk, and are disturbing my _gir_. Come quickly, O Lord, fat policeman.” The mayor sighs. “I go”; then he turns to us. “Will you accompany me?” “Gladly, if we don’t have to eat any more.” The mayor considers this a back-handed compliment to the amplitude of his hospitality and smiles. “_V period_, it is not far.” He puts on his huge greatcoat, draws on his ponderous boots, takes a heavy stick, and in vividly embroidered Chinese ear-tabs stands ready to follow the Mongol. We shoulder open the felted door. From the low-ceilinged recess between this and the outer door he produces two other big sticks, like pilgrim’s staves. These he hands to his visitors. “For the dogs!” he explains. The Mongol’s hut is soon reached. It is in frightful disorder, and vodka-bottles are strewn around. The mayor looks up in a little book to see if Krasni, young Agueff, and Pugachev are not, as he suspects, the men who in native nomenclature are called Red Mustache, Blue Coat, and Long Nose. He finds that he has rightly surmised. “I know them,” says the mayor. “They will come around to me in the morning. I will tell them to make the Mongol satisfaction. When they come back and say he is satisfied, I tell them to be good and to do this no more. _Nietchevo!_” The irate man is jollied along, and is told that it will be fixed up soon. Consoled and soothed by the protection of authority, he admits it was not so bad after all, and he bids us, as we leave, a grinning “_Sein oh!_” “Now,” says the mayor, “will you not come and see Urga at night?”