McKay spent the rest of the afternoon at his usual duties, and towards
evening, having carefully reloaded his revolver, and filled his
pockets with Russian rouble notes, which he obtained on purpose from
the military chest, he mounted a tough little Tartar pony, used
generally by his servant, and trotted down to the hut-town.
Valetta Joe heard with marked disapprobation McKay's intention of
carrying out his enterprise without assuming disguise.
"You better stay at home: not go very far like that."
"Lend me a _greggo_ to throw over my coat, and a sheepskin cap, and I
shall easily pass the Cossack sentries. Where is my guide?"
"Seelim--Jee!" shouted Joe, and the old gentleman who had visited
McKay that morning came ambling up from the cellar below.
"Is that old idiot to go with me? Why, he speaks no known tongue!"
cried McKay.
"Only Tartar. You know no Tartar? Well, he understand the stick. Show
it him--so," and Joe made a motion of striking the old man, who bent
submissively to receive the blow.
"Does he know where he is to take me? What we are going to do?"
"All right. You trust him: he take you past Cossacks." Joe muttered a
few unintelligible instructions to the guide, who received them with
deep respect, making a low bow, first to Joe and then to McKay.
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