"Are you the steward?"

"Yep; what do you want?"

"May I have a minute of your time?"

"No, sir, only a half a minute." Our case looked hopeless.

"What are the chances for two of us to get a job?"

"None. I have had enough of fellows like you. Get off the gangway before I have you kicked off," shouted the chief cook as he beckoned to several deck hands to enforce his threat. There being nothing else to do, the two of us withdrew amid the laughter of the people on the pier who witnessed the dialogue. We retired to the opposite side of the wharf where we sat down, smoked a cigarette and talked the matter over. We felt pretty much subdued.

We were novices at the game of procuring maritime jobs and the old sea dogs with whom we had to deal knew it, but we concluded that the only way to get experience was to persevere. We started the trip as tramps and now, for the first time, we realised that we actually were tramps; but we always clung to the idea that we were of the refined variety.

Our next attempt towards obtaining passage was on a British tramp coal steamer plying between Honolulu and Australia. I was especially eager to go to Sydney because a friend of mine, touring the southern continent, had procured a job for me with a draying company in that city. The British tramp was to be painted on her return to Australia and as men were needed Richardson and I were signed on and our duties outlined. They consisted of knocking off the old paint on the side of the ship for twenty-one days. The skipper informed us that the boat was to get under way the following afternoon and that we ought to report for duty in the morning. We were on hand the next day but only to be disappointed, for there was no ship to be found. We learned that it had received orders to sail at once for Seattle and had left at midnight.

We were now left in the lurch. We had tendered our resignations to the Secretary of the Navy and had severed our connections with the Pearl Harbour operations. To diminish our chances for passage to the Orient there was nothing going our way upon which there was the remotest chance of getting a job. Although we felt rather opulent after several months' work as inspectors we were reluctant to look up the rates to Yokohama on the regular liners—but decided to do so. We found that on the following day the Asia, an intermediate steamer of the Pacific Mail Steamship Company, was due from San Francisco en route to Japan and that the fare was seventy-five dollars. This was a huge sum to part with at one blow, but when compared with the regular first class fare of one hundred and fifty dollars on the larger boats looked like a saving. We also figured that by the time we had spent several months floundering around Australia, in spite of the money saved getting there, we should arrive in Manila several hundred dollars out. With these considerations we decided to take the Asia to Yokohama.

We had spent a number of weeks in getting our baggage together and had reduced it to a scientific minimum. We agreed only to take a suit case and a small hand bag each. In addition to these Richardson was to bring his camera. Our baggage consisted of the following wearing apparel and fixtures: two suits of clothes each (one on our backs), one pair of heavy shoes, a cap, six soft shirts, two flannel shirts, a pair of overalls, a dozen socks, six sets of underwear, a dozen handkerchiefs, a rain coat, a few toilet articles, diaries and some stationery. The trip was not to be a dress affair and all hard-boiled shirts, linen collars and evening clothes were dismissed from the start. Even with our wardrobes reduced to this half civilised minimum, it required systematic packing and almost superhuman strength to close our suit cases.

We closed up our affairs in Honolulu, put our money into American Bankers' Travelers' checks, ate a few farewell meals, drank a few final toasts and were in readiness to depart. The Asia was scheduled to leave at five in the afternoon. I was on the pier a few minutes before the appointed time, but there was no sign of Richardson. Five minutes to five—and Richardson had not arrived; four, three, two and one minute to five—and Richardson was nowhere to be found. Five o'clock—and no Richardson. The lines of the ship were being loosened from the pier. I was on board; after having made arrangements with some navy men to have the government launch bring Richardson out to the Asia while she was turning in the stream or to tell him to meet me in Yokohama. At two minutes after five o'clock—just as the ship was getting under way—Richardson came running down the wharf armed with a suit case, a small leather bag, a camera, a rain coat, a hair brush extending from one pocket, a bottle of tooth powder from another and a half a dozen small bundles hanging from any place where they could stick. The gangplank was lowered and he came aboard, while a handful of friends placed several Hawaiian leis about his perspiring neck.

The Royal Hawaiian Band played Aloha Oe, the ship got under way and we began the second leg of our trip with seven hundred dollars each in our pockets.

CHAPTER IV

LIVING AS JAPANESE IN JAPAN

The Asia proved to be a good ship and lazily ploughed her way across the Pacific in a manner to indicate that this trip was simply one in the cycle of many more to come. But this was her last, for on her return from Manila, she encountered a heavy fog off the coast of China and went head on into a large rock and anchored herself securely with her nose in the air and her stern submerged in the sea. Her passengers and crew were all saved and, after being pillaged by Chinese pirates, she was whipped off by the waves and sank into the water, a total wreck.

Ten days of ocean travel spent with educated Japanese returning home, with United States Government employés bound for Manila and other human beings of assorted sizes and miscellaneous occupations, and we reached the shores of Japan.

From one of the Japanese on board we obtained a prospective itinerary. We made arrangements with Mr. A. Miyawaki, a young American-educated Japanese, who was returning to his native land after an absence of eight years, to accompany us for ten days. Miyawaki was a charming little fellow and had been assistant in dairying at the Kansas State Agricultural Experiment Station. We figured that with him as a travelling companion we had acquired a valuable guide. Although Japan was nearly as strange to him as it was to us—for he left when a boy—he knew the language, the lack of which knowledge we soon found to be a great obstacle.

There are two ways to travel—one in luxury as a tourist, the other in discomfort as a tramp. What on earth is there so vulgar as the affluent, loud-voiced, inquisitive, lazy, coin-displaying American tourist? He splashes through Europe or the Orient with a Baedeker in one hand and a ten dollar bill or its equivalent in the other, glances at the cathedrals and temples, eats a near-native meal especially arranged by Thomas Cook and Son, puts up at the expensive European or American hotels and flits from country to country—and imagines that he has seen all there is to see. Nearly every tourist on arriving in Japan goes directly to an Occidental hotel where he lives in Western fashion and luxury at Western prices and seldom, if ever, comes in contact with the natives.

Richardson and I were not tourists but refined tramps. We decided to religiously avoid the American and European hotels for two reasons—first, for economy, and second, for the interesting things we would see and learn. The man is fortunate who can get off without paying eight yen (four dollars) a day at the average Western hotel in an Oriental city, while around the corner at a Japanese inn it is possible to get a room and two meals for from one to three yen a day. There is not the same amount of comfort and luxury as is offered by the Occidental hotel, but there is a thousand times more interest.

The Asia arrived in Tokyo Bay and the city of Yokohama loomed up before us. After a short customs examination, through which I managed to smuggle some American tobacco—for I had learned something of the inferior qualities of this commodity in Japan—we took a rickshaw each, from among the hundred or more that were waiting at the pier, and were off up the street.

Miyawaki, our Japanese friend, accompanied us. Our rickshaws drew up to a Japanese inn and Miyawaki soon made arrangements for our rooms. We sat down on the little porch and took off our shoes, leaving them on the sidewalk along with a score of others, and put on a pair of slippers. After we were robed in kimonos, a dainty little maid pattered in with a tray load of provisions. She knelt down and spread before us the evening meal. Rice represented the bulk of the food and there were raw fish, a bowl of soup with one egg in it, a dish of boiled bamboo shoots, a plate of sweetened beans and a little receptacle containing some black flavouring sauce. The meal was concluded with several small bowls of tea. Richardson and I flew to this assortment almost like animals, we were so hungry. The little maid was much amused at our awkward efforts to manipulate the chop sticks. Rice was especially hard to handle with these two strips of wood.

Richardson and I became so fond of rice before we had lived long on that staple that we thought we could never again eat a meal without it. The Japanese understand how to prepare it and cook it in such a way that each grain is dry and separate from the others. The average dish of rice in America tastes and looks like a mass of Library paste.

Life in a Japanese hotel is a continual round of novelties and interesting experiences to the uninitiated Western traveller. Before entering the guest must remove his shoes—a more sensible custom than that of the Occident of removing the hat—for which tracks in the dirt? With a pair of house slippers to replace his shoes, the guest is ushered into his room, a compartment without any furniture except a Japanese screen and a picture or two. In winter there may be a stove, which consists of a small circular receptacle resembling a jardinière and containing ashes—in the centre of which are a few live pieces of charcoal. As soon as the guest is in his room the proprietor enters with a blank form which is to be filled out and which gives a complete record of the new arrival—his age, occupation, home, reasons for being away from home, destination, etc. This information is turned over by the inn-keeper to the chief of police and thus a close tab is kept on every visitor to a Japanese city. After this formality, the maid enters the room with a kimono and if you give her a chance will completely disrobe you. There are no chairs; nothing but a little mat upon which you coil in tailor fashion. There are no beds; retiring appliances consisting of a thin mattress and quilts which are spread out on the floor at bed-time each night and taken up again in the morning to be placed in compartments in the wall of the room. There is no dining table but in its place is a little tray, sometimes elevated on legs, brought in from the kitchen at meal times. There are no knives, forks and spoons, nor plates. In fact, everything that one would expect to find in an hotel is missing and some other device is in its place. Probably the most unusual feature to the western traveller is the accommodation for taking a bath. This generally consists of a fair-sized room in which are a dozen or more little round wooden tubs where men, women and children all gather at the same time and perform their daily ablutions.

This, briefly, is the lay-out which a traveller finds when he stays at a Japanese hotel. As much of a novelty as it was for Richardson and me to experience the sensations of this kind of inn, it was an equal novelty for the Japanese to have us as guests. We often encountered considerable difficulty in convincing the proprietor that we really wished to stay at his hotel. In addition to the handicap of carrying on a conversation without the use of a language, for we knew nothing of Japanese, we frequently had to overcome the hotel man's notion that we were trying to play a joke on him. Once in the hotel we were constantly the centre of attraction and source of interest not only to those employed about the place but also to the other guests.

In our first Japanese hotel we acted as awkwardly as a cow on a polished floor. When it came time to go to bed Richardson became greatly embarrassed as the pretty little Jap maid in a conscientious effort to perform her duty began to disrobe him. She first removed his coat, at which he gave no indications of disapproval. She then began releasing his shirt and, as she proceeded, Rich's brow began to colour. He didn't murmur until she commenced to separate him from his trousers, which so startled the modest young man that he exploded with such a blast-like tone, "Whoa, Bill," that the poor girl, frightened nearly to death, took refuge in flight. Richardson continued the remainder of his disrobing without assistance.

Privacy is unknown in Japan. Everybody knows every other person's business and little or no attempt is made towards secrecy. The walls of a Japanese house are built of heavy paper or very thin wood and the intimate conversation in one room can be heard in the next. From an American point of view the Japanese are immodest. In some ways they are more modest than we are. They think no more of exposing their bodies entirely nude than Europeans do of displaying their ungloved hands to a crowd. But this is not necessarily immodesty. Modesty is a mental attitude and not the conforming to a certain code of rules.

The bath-room in a Japanese hotel is often the most public part of the building. Especially is this the case in the country districts where western influence has had little or no effect. Although it is now a national regulation that the opposite sexes are not allowed to bathe together, this law is not enforced in the country towns and even in some of the cities. Japan is a nation of bathers. There are said to be thirty thousand public bath-houses in the city of Tokyo alone and at five o'clock each evening thousands of people can be seen with towels over their arms wending their way for their daily wash. It is at this time that all the guests—men, women and children in the hotel—gather in the bath-room and splash about like a lot of youngsters, laughing and enjoying themselves.

If we wanted to be clean we had to cast aside our provincial American ways and bathe in Japanese fashion. Richardson rather objected to this. On one occasion he went to the bath-room and returned almost immediately.

"Have you finished your bath already?" I asked.

"No, there are a lot of women in the tub," he replied, disgusted.

Japan

host

"Why let them bother you? If they stand in your way you will not get a bath as long as you are in Japan. If the women don't object I am sure I don't," and, saying this, I went down stairs to the bath-room, where I performed my toilet with half a dozen men and women, in true Japanese style.

Yokohama is the seaport of Tokyo and possesses little of interest except the novelty of being the first Japanese city in which the traveller lands. We spent a day in Kamakura, a sea-side resort about twenty miles away, where we saw the Daibutsu, a bronze statue of the Great Buddha.

Tokyo is but a few hours' ride from Yokohama. We arrived at the busy Shimbashi station and in a few moments were lodged in our second Japanese hotel. It was in this hotel that I upset all the social regulations by using soap in the bath-tub. As the same tub of water is often used by all the guests in the hotel, it is considered a great breach of etiquette to climb into the bath and soap one's body in a civilised manner. This soaping process is supposed to be carried on before getting into the tub and the body is to be thoroughly rinsed off by means of dippers or basins before entering the bath for a final soak. I was not aware of these minute details of Japanese bath procedure and went at this cleansing operation in the Saturday night fashion customary in rural America. The result was that all the succeeding bathers had to wash in soap-suddy water. I was completely ostracised.

We were fortunate to visit Japan during the season of the year when the cherry blossoms were in full bloom. Ueno Park, probably the most popular resort in Tokyo, was a forest of these trees, laden with millions of sweet-scented flowers. Thousands of people gathered each afternoon in this public park to rest and enjoy the beauty of the blossoms for which Japan is famous.

It was in this park that I decided to give up smoking. I had paused on one of the walks and was rolling a cigarette with some "Bull Durham" I had smuggled in the country, when a Japanese policeman came up to me and, with a few words which I did not understand, unceremoniously took the "makings" from me. I stood half stunned with surprise. I soon realised that I had exposed my tobacco to confiscation, disregarding a warning given me by a Japanese passenger on our steamer across the Pacific. I had previously tried the cigarettes sold in the native shops but couldn't become accustomed to them. Relieved of my American supply I decided to give up smoking altogether—for a time. Tobacco is a government monopoly in Japan and there is a prohibitive duty on all foreign importations of it.

One evening we visited the Yoshiwara, described in the guide books as the most famous tenderloin section in the world. It is a considerable distance from the business portion of the city and consists of about one hundred houses. There are nearly two thousand women in the district and during the evening they sit behind iron barred windows, similar to an American dry goods display window. Seated in a row, in front of several elaborately decorated screens, eight or more tastily dressed women of each establishment spend their time smoking or painting their faces, while the curious crowds flock by and look them over. What struck me more forcibly than anything else was the character of the sightseers. I saw a middle-aged man with his eighteen-year-old daughter leisurely spending an hour in this section. Two mothers with infants on their backs were interestedly going the rounds and a young married couple was a pair that came to my notice. Thousands of people flowed to and fro on the narrow streets and for a moment I thought the whole of Tokyo had congregated in this place for the evening. I was told that the Yoshiwara was at one time operated by the municipal government of Tokyo but that now, due to the influence of the British and American Salvation Army representatives, it is carried on independently but is closely watched and regulated by city officials.

Japan is a land of beautiful memorials to her dead heroes. At Nikko to the north of Tokyo we spent a delightful week, where, resting among the cryptomeria on the hill side, are the bodies of Ieyasu and Iyemitsu, two Shoguns of the Tokugawa Dynasty. These two tombs are the objective points for thousands of pilgrims each year. In addition to the natural beauty of the spot and the mausoleums of these rulers of mediæval Japan, there are a dozen or more interesting buildings and temples dedicated to various saints and containing collections of relics and Buddhist scriptures. These edifices represent the best in Japanese art.

Richardson and I walked to Lake Chuzenji, which lies in the hills, about ten miles beyond Nikko. We started early on a bitterly cold morning and ascended the beautiful mountain side by a wandering and picturesque path. The lake was nearly entirely frozen over. There was, however, an open space near the shore and prompted by a notion to do something to startle the simple people who lived in the village on the bank of the lake, we disrobed and took a dip in the icy water. It was impossible for two human beings to take such a cold plunge and do so in silence. The temperature of the water was indicated by the shrieks we made as we splashed about. These calls attracted the attention of the people near-by and in a few moments two score or more of men, women and children assembled to see two insane foreigners dabbling about like idiots in water that was several degrees below.

Japanese trains are very similar to those of America. If I were asked to state the most striking difference between them I would say—the politeness of the officials and the train crews. We were on our way from Tokyo to Nagoya and were seated on one of the two long benches which run lengthwise in the car. I had made the acquaintance of the native passenger next to me. Presently there appeared at one end of the coach a man in uniform whom I recognised as the conductor. He called out and then made three deep bows, at the same time making the sucking sound of etiquette common in Japan. All the passengers responded to the conductor's courtesy by bending their heads, and making this peculiar hissing noise. I thought everybody had suddenly begun to eat soup. This painful and rather disgusting performance continued for nearly two minutes. Finally, every one sat at attention. The conductor in a clear and reverent voice said something, bowed and departed. My curiosity was aroused and I asked my native acquaintance what had happened. He informed me that the conductor had announced that the next station was Toyohashi. What a contrast, I thought, to the American brakeman who brushes his way through a crowded day coach, shoving people aside and treading on their feet, and with a rasping voice announces the next station in such a way that no one can understand him.

At first we found the language a big obstacle and it required much patience and often over an hour to make our hotel arrangements. On account of our association with the natives, however, we soon picked up a small vocabulary and this we acquired scientifically. Richardson had about one hundred words in his head and I had an equal number, and in neither set were there duplications. This is a case of applying the principles of efficiency. Richardson learned to count to one hundred and was the financial conversationalist, while I confined my knowledge to brief and snappy literary efforts. We would enter a shop and select an article, and I would then inquire the price of it in Japanese and Richardson would interpret the shop-keeper's reply. By this team work we were able to navigate in a language which takes years to master.

A characteristic impracticability of most Oriental languages, and as much so of the Japanese as any, is the large number of words and phrases necessary to make a brief statement or convey a simple idea. There is a great deal of formality, set phrases and polite sayings, which must be complied with, before the speaker gets down to the point. What an American can say in half a dozen words will require as many sentences in Japan. We were continually confronted with this. On one occasion we wished to ascertain where a certain street was and Mikawaki inquired of a passer-by. After talking to him for nearly ten minutes, only stopping when Richardson suggested that he knock off, he translated the conversation to mean "The next street."

At Nagoya I looked up Taisuke Murakami, a young Japanese who had been one of my pupils in Iolani School in Honolulu and who had since returned to Japan. He was attending a military academy in Nagoya. Richardson and I visited this institution and were received with much consideration and respect. Through Murakami we were given a good entrée and were curiously inspected as samples of American pedagogues.

We spent the evening at a motion picture theatre where an American reel illustrated the uninteresting details of an American love story. When it came time to settle our hotel bill I found that my friend Murakami had paid for both Richardson and myself. I didn't like him to do this, for I knew he couldn't afford it. It was a sample of Japanese hospitality.

This trait of the Oriental compels me to sermonise. Occidentals, and especially Americans, consider that they are superior to the rest of the world. We often feel that our ways are the only ways, that our customs are right and that those of other peoples are wrong. After one has visited many Oriental countries and has had time to get their point of view and to understand their ways he begins to doubt the reasonableness and feasibility of many of our American customs. He certainly gets over that feeble notion that our way of doing things is the only way.

The Japanese have their faults, but no one can accuse them of being prudes, of having false modesty. They are a more modest race of people than Americans. They have no foolish notions about concealing the human body, but their average of morals is every whit as high as that in America. We talk a great deal among ourselves of our wonderful hospitality, but when compared to this quality in the Japanese we don't possess the first principles of this virtue. Our hospitality is of a collective variety. Our cities will entertain most lavishly and we will give them our support as long as we don't have to come in contact with the recipients. In our homes we only entertain our friends or persons with worthless pedigrees. But the supreme test of hospitality is when one is willing and glad to take in the total stranger, a foreigner perhaps, and house and feed him as a member of the family. Imagine an American family taking into their household a pair of strange Japanese who were travelling through their city. It is futile to consider it. But this is exactly what the Japanese did to Richardson and myself in many instances. Absolute strangers to us—and we to them—they extended to us the most cordial invitations to come to their homes and enjoy their hospitality indefinitely. Many of these we accepted and always departed full of amazement at the wonderful exhibitions of kindness and hospitality.

Kyoto is the prize of Japan. It is a city of six hundred thousand inhabitants, only fifty of whom are foreigners and these mostly missionaries. The result of this small number of Occidentals is that Kyoto still retains its Japanese charm and has very few of the vulgar and commercialised features of the West.

The city was celebrating the seven hundredth anniversary of the Jodo sect of the Buddhist religion and its streets were crowded with thousands of people from the surrounding small towns and country districts. All the places of worship were thronged with pilgrims and the huge Hongwanji Temple, the largest in Kyoto, was a bee-hive of peasants who flowed in and out to bestow their gifts and offer up a prayer.

Kissing seems to be largely a western custom, for such a means of showing affection is not used in the Orient except by a mother to her child. It was in Kyoto that Richardson and I thought it would be a good idea to introduce the practice into Japan. While buying provisions each day in the bakery, grocery and fruit shops, we would slyly creep up and place our lips to the rosy cheek of the shop-keeper's wife or daughter. They hardly knew how to take us. None of them was offended. Some looked at us with pity, thinking that we must have some affliction like the St. Vitus' dance, which took the form of flying towards women's faces every few minutes. Even the husbands of these women took our advances in a matter-of-fact way and considered our osculations simply one of our many idiosyncrasies.

While in Kyoto Richardson and I put up at the native Y.M.C.A. building which had just been completed. We occupied an unfurnished room which was placed at our disposal, free of charge, by the advisory secretary, an American. We slept on the floor and were well used to the absence of furniture.

One morning Richardson casually remarked that the American secretary had offered him a teaching job in China and that he had turned it down.

"Why did you do that?" I enquired.

"Because I did not want to separate from you," was Richardson's reply.

"Nonsense," I said, "we are not married, and if we wait until we get comfortable berths together in the same town we shall never get anywhere. Open up the matter again and land the job if you can."

Although we each still had plenty of the money which we had accumulated in Hawaii, we were willing to stop off and work for a short time and become better acquainted with a city and its people. So Richardson took up the matter again with the Y.M. C.A. secretary and received the position. It was to teach in a middle or high school in Tientsin at a salary of seventy dollars a month.

I agreed to accompany him to Tientsin and from there go on through China alone and meet him several months later in Manila. Before leaving Japan we got into serious trouble.

CHAPTER V

ARRESTED AS SPIES IN JAPAN

For two weeks we led an indolent life in Kyoto. Then the craving for the trail struck us again and with the help of an American, who had long resided in Japan, we mapped out an itinerary that would carry us into a remote country, penetrated by less than half a dozen foreigners. In the early morning we set out from Kyoto on foot, and we did not know that we were plunging headlong into an adventure which would reverberate clear into the Department of State at Washington before we again mingled in the bustling crowds of Kyoto.

On the shore of Lake Biwa we boarded a steamer and sailed fifty miles to the village of Imasu. A night in a Japanese inn, and we walked twenty-five miles, the following day, to Obama on the Sea of Japan. We passed through an endless chain of picturesque villages. Our entrance to these small towns was a great source of interest to the inhabitants, who rushed to the doors or windows of their shops and houses, or poured into the streets to look us over. They scanned our clothes with the frankest sort of curiosity. They were especially impressed with our heavy leather shoes which they examined carefully, usually turning away to hide their smiles. In village after village we caused a cessation of business and household duties until we were out of sight. Our advent and departure were probably the main topic of discussion the rest of the day.

At Obama we devoted a full hour to vigorous gesticulation with our hands before we could convey the idea into the head of an inn proprietor that we wanted a bed.

That night we slept on the footstool of adventure.

At dawn we sailed out of the narrow cove into the Sea of Japan. The coast on this run is a beautiful panorama of bays and inlets supported in the background by richly wooded hills. Green and pretty villages stud the shore.

Richardson was taken with the beauty of these villages. He unslung his camera and snapped a picture of one of them from the steamer deck. The kodak was barely back in its case before a deck hand skipped to the captain's cabin and made a report. The captain summoned Richardson posthaste. The whole ship bristled with excitement.

It developed that we were in Maisuru Bay, the chief naval base of Japan, and therefore one of the zones in which it is unlawful to take pictures. Richardson refused to get excited. He gave the captain the roll of films, together with his Kyoto address, requested him to have it developed, destroy the illegal picture and return the others. The captain said he would. We thought the incident was closed.

But it wasn't. It had just begun. In a few minutes our steamer was at the dock and we went down the gangway to board a train for our return trip to Kyoto. I had sunk comfortably down into my seat and opened a book when a Japanese in uniform rushed up waving his hands and shouting at me in his native language.

"Beat it," I said. I thought he was crazy. The excited officer stood moving his hands in a manner which would indicate in a western country that he wanted me to remain where I was. The impatient man finally left the car. Richardson came in.

"What in blazes is the matter with that Jap? He must be drunk," I said.

"He's a cop. We are both under arrest for that picture," said Richardson. "The captain reported it to the police."

The officer in uniform came back twisting his hands in the air like an insane man. I didn't realise that these movements were equivalent to the American beckoning sign, so I remained seated. He lurched over and gripped my shoulder. Richardson had gone out. I got up and in three seconds found myself with him in the midst of two hundred incensed natives.

Other police and a couple of military officers had come up. Richardson's camera had been taken from him. We stood in the midst of this gathering while the uniformed officers held a conference. We couldn't understand a word. They finally led us away. For an hour Richardson and I, accompanied by two policemen, marched abreast. We concluded that they had decided to walk us to death. At last we arrived at an edifice from which a Japanese flag was flying, and in front of which two sentinels stood on duty. This was the military police court and prison. We were ushered in and were greeted by half-a-dozen officers in uniforms who bowed and bobbed around with as much ceremony as though we were two caliphs of Bagdad. They were the politest lot of policemen we ever saw.

The military judge was on the bench and we were taken into his presence with many smiles and salaams. We tried to tell the judge that we loved the Japanese people very dearly and we wanted to go back to Kyoto. He couldn't understand a word. No one else could. We had nothing to do but wait for an interpreter, whom one of the clerks of the court was sent out to obtain. The Japanese were very serious. We were not impressed and made irreverent remarks about the judge and the court officials.

We waited until noon and as we were hungry we made this fact known by means of writing, for one of the clerks could read English, after a fashion, but could not speak it. Permission was granted us to dine. Richardson asked the court to pay the bill. The request, after an half-hour conference, was refused. We set out with two policemen to a Japanese hotel where we ate a fifteen-minute meal in an hour and a half while the two officers remained on guard at the door.

In the afternoon the "interpreter" came. We expected to see an American or, at least, some one who understood the English language. Instead there stood before us a little Jap who looked like a miniature pugilist and knew about as much English as a two-year-old child. He started his cross-examination by the regular preliminary bows and genuflections and kept at this performance for so long a time that when he began to speak we expected a masterpiece. His first utterance was,

"I am sorry the e-vent has happened."

"So are we, old top," put in Richardson. "But cut out this nonsense. We have a date in Kyoto." Richardson might as well have been talking to a parsnip.

The cross-examination finally got under way and proceeded laboriously. We were asked every conceivable question,—our names, ages, nationalities, occupations, parents' names and their occupations, our reasons for being away from home, the length of time we had been away from the United States, where were we going and why, had we ever been convicted of any crime in America, our reason for taking the picture, our domicile and acquaintances in Kyoto. These and many more questions were asked us extending over a period of six hours.

Under the heading of occupation, we stated that we were school teachers, being the first and most harmless vocation we could think of. Right here, the court found a huge inconsistency. This vocation did not compare with the records received from the hotel registers. Every guest, on arrival at an hotel, is required to give his occupation when registering and this is turned over to the police with the other information. Richardson and I, not having any definite vocation, signed up under different callings in each hotel. We dug up all the antiquated and unusual means of earning a living that our imaginations could muster. The list included ventriloquist, crutch-maker, chiropodist, clairvoyant, boilermaker, hypnotist and wig-maker. The judge confronted us with this array of honourable vocations, which he had obtained from the police records, and demanded an explanation. Richardson rose to the occasion. In a short time he had us out of the trap. He explained that English was very flexible; that it was a language replete with synonyms; and that it contained numerous words which meant the same thing. He went into a lengthy dissertation in which he thoroughly convinced the judge that crutch-maker, chiropodist, etc., all meant school teacher and that each simply emphasised a different phase of the vocation.

The questioning convinced the court that it had little hold on me except as an accomplice of Richardson. The latter was the man caught in the act. On my suggestion they allowed me to return to Kyoto accompanied by an officer. Richardson was held all night for further examination.

I arrived in Kyoto about midnight and immediately retired. In the morning I met the advisory secretary of the Y.M.C.A. who had heard of our trouble by telegraph, as the Maisuru authorities had referred our story to him for verification. The news of the incident had spread throughout Japan. Great crowds gathered in front of the Kyoto newspaper offices where bulletins announced that two American spies had been arrested at Maisuru and that in their possession were found pictures of battleships, sketches of harbours and plans of forts. The newspaper accounts described us as poor men, due to the fact that Richardson, expecting he would have to put up a bond, said he had but twelve yen, when asked the amount of money he had. The report that we were poverty stricken was also due to the fact that we wore blue flannel shirts, the proper attire for walking—but not one in which the Japanese are accustomed to see Americans. The press reports also referred to us as suspicious looking characters and stated that we did not take the matter seriously, as we jested in the courtroom.

The following account under the heading, "The Spy Scare—American Photographers Arrested," was taken from an English paper in Kobe and is a translation of an article which appeared in a Japanese journal:

"We learn from a Maisuru despatch to the Asahi that two foreign passengers of the Daiichi Hashidate-maru, which arrived at Maisuru at 9:20 A.M. on the 21st from Obama, photographed the first section of the Maisuru Naval Station when the steamer approached the entrance to the harbour of Shin-Maisuru. They took over ten pictures, which distinctly showed even the warships in the harbour. The action was observed by some members of the crew of the steamer and, upon arrival at Maisuru, they reported the matter to the Maisuru gendarmerie station through the Maisuru Water Police. Gendarmes immediately appeared on board the steamer and arrested the foreigners and conducted them to the gendarmerie station. Upon examination they were found to be two Americans from California named Richardson (aged 24) and Fletcher (aged 26). Mr. Richardson, continues the despatch, is the son of a doctor, and was teaching at a school in Honolulu. In October he left Honolulu with Mr. Fletcher for a tour around the world, and they arrived at Yokohama on the 1st instant. Proceeding to Kyoto, they took up their quarters at the Christian Institute at Sanjo-dori, and on the 19th instant left Kyoto for a tour in the interior. They took a steamer at Otsu and proceeded to Imasu and Obama. They spent two days at the latter place and left there on the morning of the 21st by the Hashidate-maru for Maisuru. They stated that they had no ulterior motives in photographing the Naval Station, but, concludes the despatch, their behaviour when they took the photographs was suspicious. The fact that the two foreigners were not very well dressed, and had no more than twelve yen in their possession, appears to have aroused suspicion. Eventually they were handed over to the Procurator's office, where they are now being examined by Procurator Ogata."

arrest

Accounts of the affair were printed in all the leading papers of the Far East, including Japan, Korea, China and the Philippines. The Associated Press obtained the news and the dailies of the Pacific Coast in America displayed several columns of distorted accounts. A Honolulu journal considered it of sufficient importance to give it the following full front page headline: "Honolulu Men Languish in a Japanese Jail."

This was not all. The news had found its way to Washington, and our little incident of Maisuru Bay set the wheels of diplomacy of two nations in motion. My brother, reading the Associated Press reports in the San Francisco papers and imagining that we were being subjected to Oriental tortures in a Japanese jail, telegraphed the State Department at Washington. He received the following reply from Mr. Huntington Wilson, Acting Secretary of State at that time, under President Taft: "Department telegraphed Embassy at Tokyo to-day to ascertain facts and endeavour to secure your brother's release." The ambassador in Tokyo got in touch with the situation and replied that Richardson and I were being well treated and that as soon as proved innocent would be liberated. This information was sent to my brother by the State Department.

In the meantime we were battling with the Japanese authorities in Kyoto. We wanted to get back our camera. It was a regulation to confiscate all cameras which had been used in taking illegal pictures. We finally convinced the police that we had no ulterior motives and, after promising to leave Japan at once and giving an itinerary of our route out of the country, we were released. The Kyoto Chief of Police returned the camera, with an impressive speech, and the two of us retired from the courtroom without ceremony, while the numerous officials nearly broke their backs bowing. By a mistake the objectionable picture was left in the camera and we departed with the film of the little Maisuru Bay village in our possession.

Nor did the incident end here. We left immediately for Kobe, and from there took the Inland Sea trip as far south as Miajima. We had supposed that all the nonsense over our arrest had ended and that we were free from the pest of Japanese police. But there was more to come. We spent a day at Miajima, undisturbed by officials, the first time in several days, for the reason that we omitted to put this place on the itinerary. From Miajima we went by train to Chimeneseki and thence across by boat to Fusan in Korea. Being still in Japanese territory we were greeted by two policemen, who had received a cable to watch out for a couple of Americans and keep them moving. After a few hours in Fusan, under competent guards, we went on to Seoul.

We arrived after dark, and as our train was pulling into the station we saw two policemen on the right hand side of the track. We stole a march on these officers of the law by getting out on the left side. We scrambled around the rear of the train and were soon in rickshaws and in a few minutes were registered guests of a Japanese hotel. The proprietor sent the usual records to the police station, but before the officers were detailed on our trail we were up and out at an early hour the next morning. We went to the Y.M.C.A. where we were the guests of two young Koreans.

The police spent the day looking for us and did not locate us until evening, when they found us dining at an American private home. They had evidently been given instructions to watch every movement we made, for during the rest of our week's stay in Seoul we were each accompanied by an officer.

To add to our reputation as undesirable citizens, a Japanese guide, travelling with a Thomas Cook and Son party on our train into Seoul, reported to the police that there were two suspicious looking characters on board. This information, coupled with our already unsavoury reputation, made the officers exceptionally vigilant. What we could do to harm the innocent inhabitants of Seoul or damage their meagre possessions is a mystery.

Day and night these little fellows kept watch. They marched by our side as we took in the sights of the city and at night two of them were stationed on the steps of the Y.M.C.A. building to see that we didn't make a midnight getaway and shoot up the town. They went so far as to regulate our engagements. We were invited to be guests of a prominent Japanese family during our stay in Seoul but the police issued an order that we could not accept. They gave as their reasons that we were moving about too much and that it would be embarrassing for a respected household to entertain two criminals.

I had received an invitation to dine with some English friends and had accepted, determined to keep this engagement even if doing so caused international complications. While the policemen were at their posts on the front steps of the Y.M.C.A. I left the house by the back door, climbed over the fence, jumped into a rickshaw and was on my way. After a good meal and a pleasant evening I returned to the Y.M.C.A. about eleven o'clock and walked up the front steps between the two officers. From a semi-doze they were instantly transformed into two of the most excited and enraged men I have ever seen. The characteristic etiquette of the Far East was forgotten and they bestowed upon me numerous epithets which, if translated, would probably have taught me all the profanity in the Japanese language. I left them on the steps and went to bed.

This incident made the police especially watchful next day, but in spite of their precautions we played horse with them. We had had enough of this nonsense and decided to leave Seoul without notifying our escorts. We framed up a scheme for our escape which we carried out in such a manner that it appeared as though we were experienced crooks.

Through an American we made arrangements to ship our baggage to Chemulpo and, relieved of our belongings, we thought we could make short work of the police. It was about ten o'clock on a dark night. We were in a native shop buying fruit. The police stood at the entrance engrossed in conversation.

"Now is the time to make our getaway," I said.

"I am ready," said Richardson. "What's your plan?"

Our train would not leave for an hour. In a few hurried words I suggested that we slip out the back door, light out separately for the station and meet as soon as we could.

"All right," said Richardson, "if we can't outrun these short-legged pests we are no good."

We stole out into the alley and made a dash, each in an opposite direction. The shop-keeper called to the police but our flight had been too sudden for them. They stood petrified. The moment's hesitation was all we needed. By the time they had come to a conclusion that they should pursue us, we were out of sight. We ran down alleys, hurdling fences and seeking the dark streets. Richardson plunged through some one's private yard, mutilating the flower beds, tearing his trousers on the garden fence and before long was at the station. I completed the home-stretch of my escape by grabbing a rickshaw, placing the coolie in the seat, giving him my hat and playing the part of horse myself. It took ten minutes' persuasion and five yen to induce the man to agree to such an arrangement. A coolie will do anything for money. In this way I sauntered down the street, unnoticed, pulling an Oriental overcome with amazement. Two blocks from the station I discharged the rickshaw and walked towards the freight yards. In three-quarters of an hour we found one another and crawled into a box-car to wait for the departure of our train.

The police had lost the scent and we were free. We spent a few hours in Chemulpo, the first real freedom we had enjoyed for weeks. From Chemulpo we took a steamer and after a day at Dairen in Southern Manchuria, en route, we turned our attentions to China and forgot our Japanese troubles.

CHAPTER VI

A PROFESSOR IN A CHINESE COLLEGE

China proved to be a land of surprise. As we began our travels in this vast empire we little realised that we were on the eve of an interesting chain of experiences. I intended to press on and, as a simple tourist, see the country. I had no idea of searching for a job. My tentative plans were to be upset and I didn't have the remotest notion what the next few months had in store for me.

We landed at Taku, a small seacoast town and port of Tientsin. We were soon passed through the customs officials and started for the railroad station a half-mile distant.

Several Chinese coolies solicited the job of carrying our two suitcases. We turned them over to an old fellow who tied them together with a rope and swung them over his shoulder and walked along a few paces behind us. When we reached the station we purchased two third-class tickets to Tientsin. This expenditure took all our loose money except a small Korean coin, an American ten-dollar gold piece and our bankers' checks. The coolie turned over our bags with his hand extended for his compensation. We did the best we could and offered him the Korean coin, worth about two American cents. He refused it. The only other coin we had, the American ten-dollar gold piece, was too much for two tramps to separate themselves from for such a small service. However, we offered the coolie this money. The coin was strange to him and he refused it also. We then made an effort to exchange the gold piece for Chinese currency but there were no money changers about. Our coolie friend could not understand our failure to pay our debts. We had done everything we could think of in the line of money, so we opened our bags and offered him pieces of wearing apparel, articles from our limited toilet sets and steamship time-tables. He refused them all. There was nothing for us to do now but to stand by and wait for our train which was due in about an hour. The patience of the coolie became exhausted and he exploded in an unintelligible wrangle of Chinese. We could not understand him nor could we explain matters to the poor fellow. He finally called a policeman. This gentleman arrived and began quietly and deliberately pouring out the musical chatter of his native tongue, and seeing no response from us in the way of coin he, too, blossomed into an excited oration. The station master came out and joined the chorus and in a short time we were surrounded by a score or more celestials whose denunciations became more and more frantic. We were helpless. The climax was rapidly approaching when our train pulled into the station. We hurried aboard our car and started off for Tientsin, leaving the poor coolie unpaid with his madly shouting compatriots who collectively made such a disturbance as the little village of Taku has probably never witnessed before or since.

At Tientsin we went directly to the Y.M.C.A. where Richardson reported for his school teaching position. We met the man in charge who informed Richardson of his duties, which were to begin in a few days and which consisted of teaching physics at seventy dollars a month in a middle or high school.

While at lunch we met a clean-cut, jovial Chinese by the name of Samuel Sung Young. He spoke excellent English and I soon learned from him that he was a graduate of the University of California with the class of 1904, I having graduated in 1907. This placed us on an intimate footing at once. Young was curious to know what we were doing so far away from home. I explained that we were out seeing the earth and in a joking way asked him if he knew of any loose jobs. He replied in the negative but asked for my address in Peking where I expected to be the next two weeks. I little thought that my question was the beginning of one of the most interesting experiences of the trip.

Young was in Tientsin on business from Tangshan, a small town about two hundred miles to the north, where he was president of the Tangshan Engineering College, one of the Chinese Imperial Government's Schools.

Friends

wash-day

The Tientsin Middle School, in which Richardson was to teach, proved to be a large modern brick building, its class rooms and laboratories fairly well equipped with the latest western appliances. One of the requirements for entrance into this school was a speaking knowledge of the English language. Otherwise Richardson would have been more useless than he was. Physics was an almost unknown science to him, but he concluded that if he could not bluff it out that he was an authority on the subject he was willing to take the consequences.

During the time that Richardson was connected with this institution the first annual track meet of the schools of North China was held on its athletic grounds. The contest was planned and supervised largely by Americans and the Chinese took a great interest in it. Many schools in the northern part of the Empire sent teams, and several thousand people attended the meet. Among the distinguished spectators, who occupied a box, was the Viceroy of Chili Province with a score of attendants. Richardson worried the old fellow almost to death by taking several pictures of him and his cortége. Richardson was ordered to stop. The Viceroy was more worried, however, by the report of the starter's pistol and when the first shot was fired all his attendants gathered closely about him. Even after it had been explained to him that the cartridges were blank he issued instructions forbidding the use of the weapon altogether. The poor old gentleman was afraid that some one was going to take a shot at him. The following week he sent an order to all the schools in his province prohibiting track meets in the future. Imagine the Governor of New York issuing such an order. He would be hooted out of the state.

Richardson's duties started on a Monday and I took my leave, intending to spend a couple of months travelling through China and meet my side-partner in Manila. I went to Peking where I put up at the Y.M.C.A. for one dollar a day. I spent two weeks in this very fascinating city doing the rounds in a most tourist-like fashion. While sitting one afternoon on the great altar of the Temple of Heaven, reflecting on the fact that I was a lonely tramp wandering aimlessly through a land of strange people, I was approached by a slight male figure with a missionary caste of countenance. The man sat down and began to talk to me. He had one of those piping voices which always excite in me the desire to fight. This person, with the unfortunate and aggravating voice, was a Baptist preacher of the hardest shell variety. We spent the rest of the day together sight-seeing and at evening we agreed to meet the following day. For two weeks the Baptist and I trudged about the interesting city of Peking, visiting the Temple of Heaven, the Temple of Confucius, the Legation quarters and all the places of importance in the Tartar, Imperial and Chinese cities. The old fellow proved to be an interesting character in spite of his voice and my inclination to swing on him changed to a feeling of respect and admiration.

From Peking to Hankow but one fast train runs a week. This train makes the trip in a day and a half, running both day and night. The other trains travel only in the daytime, stopping on a siding at night, and require three days for the journey. I was at the station ready to leave in a few minutes on the fast train when I heard what I thought was my name being shouted about the depot. This startled me for, outside of the Baptist preacher and a few men I met at the Y.M.C.A., I knew no one. The name was shouted again and, seeing that a Chinese boy was the source from which it was emerging, I went to the lad to ascertain what it was all about. The boy handed me a telegram which read, "Chance for teaching till summer can you stay over wire reply." This message was from Samuel Sung Young, the President of the Tangshan Engineering College, whom I had met in Tientsin. The telegram didn't mean very much and I had only five minutes in which to make up my mind before the train departed. "Chance for teaching"—teaching what? I came to the conclusion that if I could not teach Chinese youths Hebrew or anatomy or anything else, I was no good. "Till summer"—what did that mean? Summer in China might not begin for six months. I decided to take a chance on that. The most serious difficulty, however, was that there was no mention in the telegram about pay. While I was reflecting on these matters the train whistle blew and it was time to act. I decided to wait over and investigate the position. I wired Young, "Teach what and how much?" The next day I received a reply which read, "Taels two hundred reply." I was as much at sea as ever. How much was two hundred taels? I soon learned on inquiring that it was the equivalent to one hundred and twenty-five dollars gold. But was that amount to be paid monthly or for the period lasting "till summer"? No mention was made of the subject I was to teach and the whole affair was an uncertain proposition. I rather liked this uncertain feature, so wired my acceptance and took the next train for Tangshan.

Shortly after night-fall I swung off my car at Tangshan and was greeted by President Young and Professor Shen Yen Jee, one of the instructors in the college. Jee, a Cantonese, was a graduate of the University of California in my class and we had been good friends. To meet him was a great surprise. It was nearly like coming home.

The welcome I received was as enthusiastic and cordial as any one ever had and the hospitality extended has never been surpassed and seldom equalled on this earth. We hopped into rickshaws and were off to the college grounds. President Young's mansion was a fine two-story brick building. I was introduced to Mrs. Young, a charming little Chinese woman, who spoke good English which she had learned at a Church of England school in Hongkong. I was also introduced to Miss May Wu, Mrs. Young's sister and a bright young girl of fifteen. Miss Young, the president's sister, and a very fine woman, was also present. But probably the finest of all were Mrs. Young's two dear little boys—one two years old and the other a three-months' old baby.

officials

The Tangshan Engineering College is the leading Imperial Government scientific school in China. Its ten or more buildings are of red brick and are thoroughly equipped with the latest classroom fixtures and laboratory supplies. There was an undergraduate enrolment of two hundred and fifty boys and a cleaner or finer set of young fellows cannot be found anywhere. The faculty number thirty, one-half of whom were Chinese and the other English or Scotch. President Young's house, which was part of the college plan, was enclosed in a compound of its own. In front were a pretty garden and a first-class tennis court. The interior was furnished in Chinese fashion with a strong American tinge to it, for Young had been educated in America. There were a half dozen servants and the household was conducted in a manner in keeping with the dignity of the president of a college. My bedroom was a large well-ventilated apartment containing a Chinese bed, upon which had been thoughtfully placed a pillow and bed clothes common to the West.

All the members of the household were dressed in Chinese costume. This Oriental apparel is very picturesque and demands the utmost care and taste on the part of those who wear it, both men and women, to be in style. The intricacies of Chinese dress are more complicated and require more attention, time and skill to be in accordance with the dictates of fashion than do those of the American woman with her manifold garments and her ornate headgear.

The meals were purely Chinese and I soon became accustomed to rice as the main food-stuff and almost forgot that such articles as bread or butter ever existed. The most monotonous meal of the day was breakfast. This repast consisted of rice and meat—a sort of stew, one day, and the next we would sit down to bowls containing endless strings of a substance somewhat similar to macaroni. This alternating diet was a poor substitute for the usual fresh eggs, coffee and pancakes of the day's initial meal in the West. The noon and evening meals furnished a much larger variety and there was a more favourable chance for an American to hook nourishing food out of the assortment. Such delicacies as fish eyes, shark fins, bird's nest soup, lime-cured eggs, finely chopped and highly-seasoned chicken, vegetables and rice—in numerous forms—comprised the bulk of the menu. Novel and interesting as all this was to me, I was quite ready, after a month's stay in Tangshan, for a porterhouse steak, some bread and butter and a piece of pie.

I learned my duties the day after my arrival. I was to be substitute professor in English, History and Economics, have charge of the college gymnasium and assist in the library, in place of one of the regular teachers who was absent on leave for a month. No new light was thrown on the subject of salary and this matter remained obscure until the time came for my departure. The classroom work was interesting and Chinese pupils are about the same as the general run of such creatures in any American city. One of the requirements for admission to the college was that each student should have a speaking knowledge of English. This knowledge on their part was not very profound, however, and I would talk along at times with such rapidity that the poor chaps could not understand a word.

When off duty I spent many an interesting hour talking to Mrs. Young about (to me) the peculiar ways of the Chinese—their marriage customs, their family life and social ideas. I frequently made visits to the village of Tangshan where I wandered in and out of the quaint markets, ate in Chinese restaurants or attended a religious ceremony at one of the many temples. I occasionally dropped into a theatre where the custom prevailed of entering without paying admission, the cost of the show being collected after one had been present a few minutes making up his mind whether the performance was worth seeing or not.

A Chinese play sometimes lasts for weeks and its claim to a continuous performance beats that of the American picture show. Some of the audience sit on the stage. The orchestra is also on the stage and produces the most unearthly collection of discordant sounds conceivable. The actors, dressed in the most hideous combination of colours, shriek and yelp in tones ranging in variety from the mellow voice of a female Quaker to the gruesome calls of a coyote. Most interesting among the features of the theatres were the conveniences furnished by the proprietors for their patrons. There was a continual shower of wet towels hurled through the air over the heads of the people—by a man on the stage—to boys stationed in various parts of the theatre. One of these moistened rags was passed along each row of seats and the perspiring occupants swabbed off their faces and naked bodies. The facility and skill with which these towels were thrown and caught and the utter disregard of all rules of hygiene on the part of the crowd in the common use of the fabric were marvellous.

author

Many of the Chinese instructors connected with the college had had their queues amputated. Mo—one of the proctors, however, took pride in his greasy pig-tail and refused to part with it. I suggested to him one time that if he did not cut it off I would do so myself. One evening when Mo was playing Chinese dominoes at President Young's house I determined to tie a tin can to his queue. It required some patience and a little time to carry this out so as not to give Mo any idea as to what was taking place. The rest of the Chinese were in on the joke and gave me what assistance they could, while continuing to play their game. After an hour's work the feat was accomplished and on the end of a heavy cord attached to the proctor's queue was a rusty old Standard Oil can. The Chinese usually play at their games until very late and as I wished to go to bed early I had to hasten the climax. I did this by having a servant announce a hurry call for Mo. The proctor, thinking there was trouble in the boys' dormitory, made a dash towards the door with the oil can dangling behind him. The instant he discovered the can he realised that the servant's call was a sham and in a rage turned on me whom he at once suspected of the mischief. I thought my last day had come and that I was to be mauled to pieces by the frantic handling of an enraged Oriental. He plunged towards me like a huge tiger. Fortunately for me the rest of the company appreciated the joke and came to my rescue. The angry man was calmed and a tragedy was prevented.

It was about this time that I received the following letter from Richardson in Peking: "The job in Tientsin has gone up in a balloon. Particulars later. Let it suffice to say that my Honolulu discipline got the boys on their ear and in the absence of the principal they struck. To avoid complications I beat it. No tears." This is the only information that I received concerning Richardson's sudden flight from Tientsin until I reached Manila some time later. I then forced him into the admission that he was virtually fired. Chinese students have the habit, when their teachers do not suit them, of going on a strike. It seems that Richardson tried to inaugurate a civilised system of discipline which proved to be such a sudden and revolutionary change to the laxity that had prevailed in the class room, up to the time of his advent, that the students rose up in a body and rebelled. They all went on a strike and proceeded to the acting principal of the institution and issued an ultimatum that either Richardson had to leave or they themselves would quit the school. Their decision was final and the acting head of the school informed Richardson that under the circumstances he would have to go. Richardson said that such an arrangement suited him, and that afternoon he resumed his journey.

One of the most delightful Chinese that I met during my stay in Tangshan was Mr. Sze Ping Tze, who was a graduate of Cornell University and at this time Locomotive Superintendent of the Imperial Railways of North China. He was also an high official of the Kaiping Coal Mines. Several years ago he was private secretary to Yuan Shi-Kai, later President of the Chinese Republic. I spent many pleasant evenings with Mr. Sze and became well acquainted with him. On one occasion I said to him,