The account given by the weigher was so circumstantial that it was impossible to doubt it, but, nevertheless, I decided to verify it with my own eyes, and I went to the goods-station.

Finding my acquaintance at the goods-station, I told him that I had come to see what he had told me about.

"No one I mention it to believes it," said I.

Without replying to me, the weigher called to some one in a shed. "Nikíta, come here." From the door appeared a tall, lean workman in a torn coat.

"When did you begin work?"
"When? Yesterday morning."
"And where were you last night?"
"I was unloading, of course."

"Did you work during the night?" asked I. "Of course we worked.”

And when did you begin work to-day?" "We began in the morning-when else should we begin?"

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When they let us go; then we shall finish!"

The four other workmen of his gang came up to us. They all wore torn coats and were without overcoats, though there were about 20° Réamur of cold (13° below zero, Fahrenheit).

I began to ask them about the conditions of their work, and evidently surprised them by taking an interest in such a simple and natural thing (as it seemed to them) as their thirty-six hour work.

They were all villagers; for the most part fellow-countrymen of my own-from Túla; some, however, were from Orlá, and some from Vorónesh. They lived in Moscow in lodgings, some of them with their families, but most of them without. Those who have come here alone send their earnings home to the village.

They board with contractors. Their food

costs them ten roubles (say £1 Is., or five dollars per month). They always eat meat, disregarding the fasts.

Their work always keeps them occupied more than thirty-six hours running, because it takes more than half an hour to get to their lodgings and from their lodgings, and, besides, they are often kept at work beyond the time fixed.

Paying for their own food, they earn, by such thirty-seven-hour-on-end work, about twenty-five roubles a month.

To my question, why they did such convict work, they replied:

"Where is one to go to?"

"But why work thirty-six hours on end? Cannot the work be arranged in shifts?"

"We do what we're told to."

"Yes; but why do you agree to it?"

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We agree because we have to feed ourselves. If you don't like it-be off!' If one's

even an hour late one has one's ticket shied at one and are told to march; and there are ten men ready to take the place."

The men were all young, only one was somewhat older, perhaps about forty. All their faces were lean, and had exhausted, weary eyes, as though the men were drunk. The lean workman to whom I first spoke struck me especially by the strange weariness of his look. I asked him whether he had not been drinking to-day.

"I don't drink," answered he, in the decided way in which men who really do not drink always reply to that question.

"And I do not smoke," added he.

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Do the others drink?" asked I.

Yes; it is brought here."

The work is not light, and a drink always. adds to one's strength," said the older work

man.

This workman had been drinking that day, but it was not in the least noticeable.

After some more talk with the workmen I went to watch the work.

Passing long rows of all sorts of goods, I came to some workmen slowly pushing a loaded truck. I learned afterwards that the men have to shunt the trucks themselves and to keep the platform clear of snow, without being paid for the work. It is so stated in the "Conditions of Pay." These workmen were just as tattered and emaciated as those with whom I had been talking. When they had moved the truck to its place I went up to them and asked when they had begun work, and when they had dined.

I was told that they had started work at seven o'clock, and had only just dined. The work had prevented their being let off sooner. "And when do you get away?"

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As it happens; sometimes not till ten o'clock,” replied the men, as if boasting of their endurance. Seeing my interest in their position, they surrounded me, and, probably taking