His face was a peculiar mixture of the Russian and Asiatic types, occasionally met among Siberian Cossacks. When he smiled, he showed two rows of perfect ivory, and he smiled often. Yet even with his comrades his expression could change to one of great sternness at the least break of discipline.
When he saw us he turned to my father with, "From where do you hail, friend?"
Father slowly and smilingly replied, "Don't you recognize me, Ivan Petrovitch? I have just come from the Ussuri."
"What! Is it you, Alexis Pavlovitch!" Mongalov exclaimed. "It's ages since I last saw you." And he embraced my father.
After a short exchange of reminiscences, he turned to me. "Is this your son? He promises to make a fine Cossack! Are you keeping in mind, my son, Cossack ideals of bravery and honor?"
Drawing myself to my full height in imitation of the bearing of those around me, I answered as well as I could, looking straight into his eyes as I did so.
"Good!" he exclaimed, and taking hold of me under the elbows he tossed me, like an old acquaintance, high into the air.
Then, suddenly, he turned to my father. "You must excuse me now. I want to see more of you some evening at my house." And, in a flash, the genial friend had changed into the stern commander of a company who, at a single word from him, proceeded to do the various tasks necessary before retiring.