Evening star., 1924-06-29

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go inland" said the British
consul-so vehemenuy that
the inkpot on the official table
trembled you'd lose your heads
and I'd lose my job. Not to be thought
Of"
My companion looked a little de-
pressed, 50 kicked her gently under
cover of the desk.
Canton, of course, is the most fas-
cinating town in the world. but even
the lure of its labyrinthine streets,
teeming with every race and every
caste, bordered by lacquered booths
and carved golden temples. is apt to
pall when there is war all along the
great rivers, when adventure calls
you forth to tho mighty lands beyond
the reach Of rail and road.
Unfortunately the British consul
had no sense Of humor and firmly
refused US any passport beyond the
city walls.
Quite impossible. We'd have to
use blotting paper to collect what
would be left Of you." he insisted.
Whereupon he even spent a dull hour
looking up safe routes home for US.
We thanked him meekly and avoided
each others eye!
Next day, a gentle cook-boy, prim-
rose-yellow in color, pointed out that
the ammunition train of the Southern
Army left for railhead two or three
times a week. Guilelessly We wan
dered to the station one morning, all
our worldly goods upon our backs,
and food and washing materials and
long rolls of the local heavy silver
coinage in a bulging suitcase. which
was smuggled into the guards van
by the resourceful cooklet.
We crept into . covered truck
which sheltered some forty bare-leg-
ged coolies, with dripping cartwheel
hats. A miserable deserter, nitric
ately bound with rope, crouched be-
tween Indifferent guards, who played
fan-tan in the cleanest corner. Rain
poured through the broken roof and
added to the discomfort of sitting for
ten hours crouched upon our luggage,
to be discovered and sent back At
the frequent halts we bought great
sticks of sugar-cane and crunched
the sweet fibrous ends or thick sticky
cakes, bright pink, offered on gaudy
scarlet trays.
In the wet darkness we finally ar
rived at Shiuchow, the base of the
southern army. Gray-coated soldiers
flooded the streets and recruits drill
ed in every temple court. Buddhas
above their high affairs looked down
on sleeping ranks of warriors; mon
asteries had been converted into
hospitals; every junk on the river
was used for military transport; and
the old double walls, with a deep
trench in between. were nightly
guarded by sentinels who fired with
out challenging.
X k<
WE found shelter in the house of a
fat Chinese merchant, who there.
after painted something mildly re-
sembling a Union Jack on his door
There were polished wooden opium
couches to sleep on. a huge wooden
tub in the middle of a fantastic little
courtyard to wash in, and / learned
to loathe forever the dripping greasi.
ness of a badly cooked pork chop.
All Chinese houses are infinitely
discreet No window pierces the
gray walls. The low door, adorned
with strips of scarlet paper to warn
off evil spirits, gives access to q
courtyard from which open the var
ious rooms.
In forced seclusion, for the Euro
pean is not popular in the south, we
spent three weary days-our only
amusement being our efforts to in
duce the governor to send his. army
out to fight in the open.
1T might get hurt" he replied,
firmly. and refused even to garrison
the two high hills, pagoda-crovned,
that entirely commanded the town.
We were thankful, therefore, when
a boat and an interpreter were found
for US. Tho former was moored some
miles outside the town, and to it the
crew repaired secretly one by one,
for the requisition order was sternly
enforced At nightfall we, too, crept
away, stumbling through dark by
ways, afraid even to use lantern or
torch, wondering every moment
whether q sentry's bullet would nnA
a mark in our backs Twice we hid
behind psojecting buttresses when =
guard marched pest, onoe We wasted
predous minutes while . group Of
gamblers roisterously left = lighted
hut. but eventually the river was
gained and we rolled ourselves into
coarse blankets on the clean mats Of
the salt boat.
Reed screens shut down above US,
so thst ene could barely sit upright
There were joss stteks burning n