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I continued to live in Foochow studying the language, ever looking forward to the session of the annual conference when I would be assigned to work in the midst of the whirl of activities in the provincial capital. For recreation during the period of language study I made an extensive study of the birds of the area, played both cricket and hockey with the business men of the port, hoping to break through the crust of hostile reserve which had tended to serve as a barrier between the missionary and business groups. At long last both my tennis-playing pal James Semester and I were invited to join the Community Recreation Club. That within itself, was worth something. I was invited to play cricket with the community team against the team of the British battleship Mon. The game lasted through the greater part of a day, with a break at noon for a most sump-tuous lunch. I had the distinction of carrying my bat off the playing field for which I was roundly congratulated, even though I had not had an opportunity to face the opposing bowler. I could never get very enthusiastic over cricket after that day. It seemed very tame to one who had played American baseball in fairly fast company.

After the game I was asked to see how far I could throw a cricket ball. I threw the ball but twice. I knew I had gotten all there was in me into the second throw. The distance was measured and was found to be two yards over the recorded world's record. I was pestered for weeks by those who wanted me to sign an affidavit, that the Foochow Recreation Club might receive credit for the record breaking throw. At that time of my missionary career there were far too many men who would welcome such documentary evidence against a missionary. I was only a student of the language at the time, but I steadfastly refused to sign any document of the kind. My reply remained, "I made the throw; others measured the distance, and that settles it as far as I am concerned." I was never interested in cricket after that one game which consumed the better part of a day.

At the annual conference session in November I was assigned work centering around the walled city Kutien. In addition to serving as principal of a large boy's school, I was to travel among the churches scattered over two vast mountainous counties. I was very busy and exceedingly happy in this assignment. Now I was afforded a real opportunity to study both the flora and fauna of a vast region abounding in life strange to me. Wherever I traveled I listened to stories about the ravages of man-killing tigers.

that God called me to preach the gospel of the Living Christ, so I cannot too easily
forsake this ministry even though I am assured there will be no money with which to
support my family." After a few more remarks he said, "I ask those of this group who
will here and now rededicate themselves to the ministry to which we have been called,
to meet me at this altar in a prayer of rededication, leaving the matter of financial
support for yourselves and your families to God and this young brother missionary."
One by one men arose and moved forward. Within a few moments I found myself the only
person not bowed at the altar. I arose and moved forward, bowing with the others. There
was but one audible prayer. It was a sincere prayer of consecration; after which each
person arose and returned to his place. I remained standing before the altar. I had
experienced my first gethsemane. My only words were, "Brothers, we have settled this
financial matter in the presence of God; return with confidence to your several tasks.
With the help of God I will find the necessary money or die in the attempt." This was
the spring of 1904. From that day, until the day I passed out the last check more than
forty years later, I never once lacked a dime for meeting any financial obligation on
time. The going was not always easy. Every dollar came through faith and prayer,
backed up by a tremendous amount of desk work. During my ministry in China, I built
over one hundred buildings. Every one was completed without a cent of debt. More
than once I returned from the session of the annual conference without a dollar to my
credit with which to meet the financial obligations of the first quarter of the new
conference year, but through a long period of years I never had cause to worry seriously
over financial questions after that memorable year 1904. God supplied all of my financial
needs in a wonderful way. It was a long lesson for me to learn - that where one does
his best to answer his own prayers God will do the rest.

One thing that was difficult for me to realize as a young missionary was that
to be an American did not mean that I was a member of a superior race. Love of country
is a very laudable thing, but to be so proud of one's heritage that one is prompted to
boast about everything American in a country where humility really is a virtue, is unwise.

I boasted about everything in America being best, and about everything in Tennessee being super-best. My very fine young language teacher and official helper must have grown weary of it all. One morning he interrupted me as I was telling him about the wonderful watermelons of Tennessee, saying, "Mr. (Sing Sang), I want to tell you a story about a young man just about your age. He was very proud of everything in his country, and had much to say about them. His house boy grew tired of it, so he decided to do something. When he returned from his marketing he brought, in his basket, a middle-size water tarrapin." After chuckling a bit as if much amused, he continued, "That night when he spread the bed for his master he placed the tarrapin between the sheets at the foot of the bed. When the missionary retired in the evening the servant stole stealthily to the door to await what might happen. Soon after the lamp was blown out there was a loud scream, and a call for help". Here Mr. Ding laughed loudly. "The houseboy rushed into the room to inquire what possibly could have so frightened his master. "Nguk Chung, there is something in my bed", said the young American excitedly, "It either scratched or bit my food badly, please see what it is." "Something in your bed?" querried the houseboy, "There cannot be anything out of the ordinary in your bed". The boy muttered to himself as he reached a hand far down between the sheets. Straightening up he held the pawing tarrapin in his hand. Rather sarcastically he said, "Only this thing; only a bed-bug, teacher. Are the bed-bugs in your country larger than this one?"

Whether this story was original with my language teacher I do not know, but I do know that, although this man remained with me as language teacher and efficient office helper for twelve years, he never rendered me a greater service than when he told me the terrapin-bedbug story.

One day I was talking with one of the long robed scholars who I was very anxious to win for Christ and the Church. He in time, was very anxious to learn something about Christian America. Our conversation somehow drifted around to the matter of separation of man and wife in America. After I had explained the divorce law in my country in as an exalted manner as possible, the man turned and looked for a time toward the distant mountains, and then faced me saying graciously, "Teacher, I realize the

his way forward to listen to the white man who had begun to speak. That was the beginning of the end of piracy for Ling Cing Ding, and too, it was the beginning of a transformed life, and of a wonderfully fruitful Christian ministry.

I had visited the death cell in the magistrate's yamen where ex-pirate Ling had been dragged and left for dead, after being beaten mercilessly with bamboo flails by order of the magistrate. I had held in my hands the bars of the window through which the man had continued his preaching after regaining consciousness. I had visited the little shrine of a place in Lungtien where this man had preached the first gospel message ever heard in that busy market town. I had on several occasions preached in the same building in Deng-diong among the mountains west of Futsing where the one-time pirate had preached and organized the first Methodist congregation in that vast region. As I traveled those trails among the mountains, I felt I was on hallowed ground.

Ling Cing Ding had become a legend. Rumor had it he had been buried on a hill-side in the Deng-diong region. I decided to locate the grave, if such a thing were possible. Therefore, when traveling the hill country of that area I seldom followed the well beaten trails, instead, I scouted over the dense, brush covered trails, kept open by wild animals and fuel-gatherers, always searching for the grave of the man who first preached Christ in the area. For several years it was a futile search.

A tiger was finally responsible for my locating the grave. A man-eater had taken up an ambush on the brush-ridden hill along the base of which ran the cobblestone trail to the west. With the myriads of civets, raccoon-dogs and foxes denning on the off-side slope of this hill, good hunting was at its best for the tiger, but this big cat had taken to attacking people traveling along the east-west trail. The human kills were always more numerous during dark and rainy days.

A situation like this inevitably meant that I would be asked to rid the countryside of this menace to human life. I found it very difficult to turn a deaf ear to such appeals, although I often found it necessary to do so. However, too many of my personal acquaintances had been killed by tiger for me to refuse to heed such pleading if it was at all possible for me to respond. And too, I was ever on the alert for a

large tiger locally known as "White Face", which had killed a very personal friend of
mine near the Rocking Stone monastery a few miles away. I had sworn vengeance upon
this much dreaded man-killer.

No man would dare still-hunt for tiger on this particular hill without reliable
support. Our Chinese cook and my traveling companion Da Da, who had become quite a
noted tiger killer in his own rights, accompanied me in an effort to contact this
ferocious man-killer. We worked our way cautiously along the slope of this hill, al-
ways keeping close enough together to attack the tiger from the flank in case either
encountered him, head-on. It was spooky business. The tangle of vines, wild rosebushes,
sprawling pine saplings and sword-grass was neck high. The entangled vines hampered
greatly any free movement. I really hoped we would not encounter a tiger in such a
place.

As I approached a likely looking bit of cover I signaled Da Da to be on the
elert to back me up. It was plainly evident I had come upon a brushcovered grave,
the most frequent bedding-up place for both tiger and leopard. Cautiously I moved
into this tangle, trigger finger in place for an emergency one-handed shot. The left
hand was busy keeping the immediate front clear of brush. Carefully prying apart the
grass and vines with barrel of rifle, I slowly worked my way into the tangle. The
dank smell of tiger was very noticeable. Sure enough, in the depths of this tangle
I came upon an old grave. With my foot I worked loose a stone which I tossed high
in the air to fall into what I knew was the bed of the tiger. This was an exceedingly
tense moment. Since there was no growl or movement, I mover slowly forward. As I
maneuvered and peered through the brush a blotch of sunlight fell squarely upon two
characters chissled deep into a slab of rock incased in cement. I saw plainly the
two Chinese characters, "Ia Su" (Jesus). I knew I had found a Christian grave. I
forced myself through the tangle to read upon the grave stone, "Jesus said, I am the
resurrection and the life, he that believeth in me though he were dead yet shall he
live". I had found the grave so long lost. I had found the grave of the one-time
pirate Ling Cing Cing, converted to Christianity through a contact with a fiddle-
playing missionary, and the first man to preach the gospel of Christ on that vast

coastal area. This converted pirate probably was the nearest approach to the apostle Paul in modern times. In 1919 his bones were transferred by the Christians of the Hinghua area to a grave nearer his ancestral home.

I was now doing much traveling on foot along the brushridden and tiger infested trails. I was beginning to become concerned about my failure to stop a charging tiger with a single shot with the .303 caliber rifle. This happened on two occasions. On both of these occasions I had time for a follow-up shot. I might not be so fortunate another time. On the first occasion mentioned, only one out of a group of five tigers I encountered when making an elbow-turn on a mountain trail saw me. It charged. I fired five times before the animal leaped high in the air with a blood-curdling roar, and went down to stay. With the remaining shell in my rifle I leveled at a beautiful male standing as if ready to charge. It dropped without a struggle. So far so good, but there I was with an empty gun and three tigers looking at their two dead comrades. By concealing myself in the high grass I got out of the dilemma.

When I examined the first tiger I found that I had made five direct hits either of which, it seemed to me, should have stopped the charging cat. A few weeks later I sat in the shade of a wild pear tree fanning myself with my hat. I saw a huge tiger, by far the largest one I had ever seen, slide off a sunning rock to begin to stalk me. I could see the animal as it moved stealthily through arm-pit high grass, but not a clear enough view to risk a shot. The skulking killer eased itself out of sight into a brushcovered water course. My first impulse was to run. I knew the brute would suddenly appear from somewhere and charge. If the attack was from the front, or at an angle to the right, the cat would by within ten feet of me before it broke into the clear. It was a nerve racking situation. The longer I waited the more nervous I became. The stalking animal had every advantage. I was in an awkward position. But the suspense ended when I saw the tiger emerge from the dense jungle far to my left and move toward me along an animal trail following the terrace wall below me. Soon I could no longer see the skulking animal. I knew he would suddenly appear from somewhere along the terrace. This gave me the advantage in a way, because there would be an instant pause in his movement as he landed upon my terrace after his jump

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from the lower terrace. The serious question was, how far would the stalking cat travel before appearing on the terrace where I was waiting? If it followed the trail to the nearest point it would not be ten feet away when it launched its attack. Suddenly the great head appeared not thirty feet to my left. With a quick shot I knocked it off the terrace. It lunged high in the air, landing upon still a lower terrace and disappeared. Suddenly I saw the great striped cat cross an open space more than one hundred yards away, as it dashed into the tangle of a heavily wooded ravine. Another very quick shot toppled it over.

On two successive occasions I had failed to put a tiger down for keeps with a single body shot. I knew that many native hunters were being killed by wounded tiger. There animals had been knocked over with very heavy slugs, so I thought seriously of what might easily happen to me had I not had opportunity for a follow-up shot on at least two occasions. The mushrooming slug thrown by the .303 caliber rifle for some reason seemed not to have sufficient shocking power to stop a tiger with certainly. This was enough to worry me, as I was likely to encounter tiger at any time as I traveled trails among the hills.

About this time I began to read much in sporting magazines about the terrific shocking power of the 22 hi-power Savage rifle. I could not bring myself to believe any 70-grain slug would stop an animal with the vitality of a 400-pound tiger. The Savage Arme Corporation asked me to try the gun out in China. When I bored a hole through 3/8 inch boiler plate with the little gun I concluded it would be effective on everything up to, and possibly including, the large wolf in southeastern China, but I never once thought of trying it on tiger.

The first animal of size I killed with the 22 hi-power rifle was a wild hog. I found it almost unbelievably effective on both wolves and foxes at extremely long range. I was delighted with the little gun.

One day I was traveling into the hills west of Futsing to inspect a church building I was erecting. A runner came panting behind me to report a man had been killed by a tiger no great distance away. I was carrying the 22 hi-power rifle at

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the time, but I did not hesitate in my decision to accompany the guide to the village where the man had been killed. I decided it was of greater importance that I dispose of the man-killer than that I check up on the church building work that particular day. Sure enough, I found a traveler on the road from Hinghua to Foochow had been attacked and killed. All signs indicated it was a tiger of large size.

By this time I had learned to understand the behavior of tiger. I was quite sure that after this kill the tiger would cross a barren divide, and bed up in the lair back of the Hiong-siang monastery. This was the area where I had encountered five tiger a few months earlier. I nodded my head to Da Da, pointed toward the distant range of mountains saying jokingly to a group of villagers, "About this time tomorrow I will bring the killer back through this village."

The lone priest at the little monastery reported having seen the tiger two days earlier. Da Da was refreshing himself with some kind of tea brew when I walked out of the monastery to do a little recon-noitreing. I was standing quite a distant from the monastery studying the lay of the land. Suddenly there appeared a large tiger far up the hill. It stood for a time only partly in the open looking at me. "White-face! Begorry", I said audibly, "This is the time I will make good my vow to kill you." I should have turned and ran back to the monastery, but I didn't. I stood watching that big cat.

Had I known the killing power of the little gun in hand I probably would have fired at the tiger at the two hundred yards range. As the tiger moved into the trail and stood switching the end of it's tail, I began to wonder whether it was safe to try to stop the charge with a rifle throwing only a 70-grain slug. That tiger launched the charge. I was somewhat unnerved by this, but I stood my ground. There was not a tree I might climb. Down the slope the great white-faced brute charged. I was not to nervous to notice the truth of what Chinese hunters had told me about the akwardness of tiger when running at full speed down a slope. "Their front legs seem so short the animal humps up its back like a cow; a man can outrun a tiger down hill", I had been told repeatedly.

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call one man who seemed very anxious to contact a tiger. He all but stumbled in shocked amazement when I showed him a pine tree freshly slashed by the claws of a tiger to a height of more than eleven feet. It was but a little later when this man got a real thrill. As we worked our way cautiously along a trail leading into a lair, I pointed to some breakfast-plate-size tracks in a recently harvested rice field. "For gosh sake Caldwell, is that the track of the kind of cat we are looking for?"

I knew it was a huge tiger we were after, but I did not say much about this. Our chance to bag the animal came, but was muffed as had so often happened before. As we sat behind a frail blind of ferns, grass and brush, with the goat tethered fifty feet away in a dry stubble field, we were heartened by hearing the crunching of stones in a creek bottom as the big jungle cat stalked the goat by way of a dry water course. I slowly raised my hand for complete silence, and pointed to the gully not thirty feet to our left. There were more sounds of grinding stones. I whispered for my companions to be ready for a sudden charge. One of the men began to cough nervously. The tiger turned and headed up the water course which led deep into its lair. "Well, it is over for today", I exclaimed, "That tiger has located us and knows there is danger; he will not return."

As we walked home I explained to my companions how very suspicious a tiger always seems to be when stalking any animal in an out-of-the-way place, especially if it is tethered alone. I had learned that it definitely does make a difference whether the animal is tethered in a field, or is working naturally and freely when feeding. The difference is doubly noticeable if it as a goat or bullock tethered alone in some isolated place.

After supper as we sat cooling bowls of cocoa upon tips of thumb and fingers, I laid out the plans for the next day, explaining the wisdom of tethering the goat at some point far removed from the blind we had used that day. The peasant in whose home we were spending the night, moved over and swung the two heavy doors of the open court shut upon their squeaking hinges, saying at the same time, "We have learned to close our doors and bar them securely at dusk. Tiger are so bold here they do not

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hesitate to rush into the house under cover of darkness, and carry off anything they
can get hold of."

One of my companions who I will call Ray, sat with his back to the door. The
family cur which had cleaned up all the scraps and crumbs under the supper table lay
sleeping peacefully under the saw-horse-like bench upon which Ray sat. As I related
some of my hair-raising escapades with tiger the dog let out a startling yelp, and
bounded into the middle of the court with bristles raised. The door sagged heavily
against the bar, indicating plainly what had disturbed the dog. I grabbed my rifle
leaning against the wall, Upon swinging around to face the door I found Ray upon his
knees in the middle of the supper table. In his up-stretched hand was his bowl of co-
coa. Not a drop had been slopped out. "What are you doing Ray; offering a drink to the
gods", I asked laughingly. Such is the nervous tension when one is among the man-
killers.

Two other young Americans who had earned letters in football in college, spent
the entire night in a big pine tree. They were not treed by a tiger, but only by
fear of a tiger. Four of these young enthusiasts had come to my station hoping I could
accompany them on a tiger hunt. Two on the group were the two who were with me when the
one I called Ray had offered his cocoa to the gods. I could not accompany them on the
hunt. The four of them established their headquarters in the home of the peasant who
always propped his door shut at dusk.

Although I could not accompany my guests on the hunt, I did suggest a likely
plan. My suggestion was that two of the men climb a sprawling pine tree near where
a trail from the inner lair to the outer lair crossed a divide. I had on one occasion,
when out with Roy Chapman Andrews, seen a tiger sneak across that trail to attack the
dogs chasing a muntjac. These men were to guard that trail. The other two hunters
were to stake a goat near the blind where we had hunted several weeks earlier. The
understanding was that if either party fired at a tiger and killed it, a three-shot
signal would immediately follow.

Well, two tiger appeared simultaneously from different directions stalking
the tethered goat. Just what actually happened never became clear to me, but either

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where he is going", spoke one of the men. He continued, "We will listen, and if he swings to the right at the parting of the ways near Dai-liang-ding, it means he is heading for the East Ravine lair, and there will be a lot of killing around here within the next few days".

"It may be, Da Da, that we can get through our work tomorrow, so as to try to get rid of the animal the next day". I spoke hopefully, adding, "It might possibly be the "U Gui", the blue tiger, and I would like much to get him."

Just before dusk the following day two men came across the field dykes following a small trail toward the village. I recognized one of them as Cau Cau, our mission messenger, so I knew Mrs. Caldwell had sent him to me. The messenger was followed by a kakki-clad white man who walked with a military bearing as though he had springs in his shoes. I was interested, and walked down the trail to meet the stranger. I grasped the hand of a fine looking young man saying, "I do not know who you are, nor what your business is, but brother I am glad to see you in this out-of-the-way place"

"I am thomas Holcombe Jr., of Peking, Captain Holcombe of the Marines to be exact", the stranger replied, and then he went on to explain that he was stranded in Fukien for a few days until there was steamer to Shanghai. "The American consul in Foochow told me it might be possible that you could contact me with a tiger around Futsing, that is to say, if you have time to take me on for a hunt", the man concluded.

"Sure", I replied, "There was a tiger calling last night, and I hurried through my work today so that I might have a try for the cat tomorrow; you have arrived at the right time."

That was my introduction to one of the finest men I ever met, and during the ensuing few days there was born a friendship which has lasted through the years. Years later this same man wrote me from Coblenz, Germany, after the close of the first World War, and after describing the five-day battle of the Market wrote, "The thrill of that battle as we fought our way through the wheat fields, and on to victory, can be likened only to the thrill you gave me when we confronted three tiger at close quarters in the lair in Fukien." I later received letters from General Holcombe on several occasions, the last one being from North Africa where he

was serving in some

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diplomatic capacity after retiring from command of the United States Marines during World War II. One does not forget a man of the character of General Thomas Holcombe Jr., especially after witnessing how he stood up under strain in a tiger lair.

A telegram from Douglas Fairbanks asking me to contact him about tiger hunting reached me while in Shanghai on the way to America with my family on furlough leave. Otherwise I probably would have added the name of this illustrious man to the list of those with whom I confronted tiger close-up without the advantage of occupying a seat on the back of an elephant, or upon a secure platform high in a tree. That was not the way it was done by me, and by those who accompanied me, in the lair of the big jungle cat in southeastern China.

There are other notables with whom I have fellowshiped in the field, and in all of these contacts I have never permitted myself to be rated a big-game hunter. As I write these lines covering some of the events of my life, more or less in chronological order, I will digress long enough to relate one instance which illustrates what I have often come up against.

I was a passenger from the Orient on the s.s. "President Coolidge". As she docked in San Francisco there was a call from the milling crowd on deck, "Is there a Mr. Caldwell on board?" Supposing there were welcome home letters or telegrams, I shot my hand high in the air in answer to the inquiry. A young woman wormed her way through the crowd with pad in hand. She was followed by a man dragging a large flex camera on tripod. The young woman confronted me with a jubilant smile.

"You are Mr. Caldwell, the big game hunter, I am so glad to see you", she querried, extending her hand.

"I am Mr. Caldwell, all right", I replied, "But I am not a big game hunter; I am just a plain ordinary missionary".

Taken somewhat aback, she asked, "Arn't you the Mr. Caldwell who accompanied Roy Chapman Andrews on an expedition to Mongolia? Arn't you the man who killed a big sheep?"

Upon learning I had accompanied Mr. Andrews on a scientific expedition along the Mongolian border, and that I had killed a record sheep, she fairly beamed with ex-

CHAPTER EIGHT
Red Arm Bands

There was ever increasing evidence that both the civil and the military,
as well as the elder statesmen of our city, were accepting me as a trusted friend of
the Chinese people. Increasingly I was being taken into the confidence of the leaders
of the various groups, and was being asked to participate in conferences and get-
togethers to discuss matters which I had always considered quite foreign to the work
of an evangelistic missionary. Mrs. Caldwell and I both talked and prayed about my
becoming more deeply involved in these semi-political affairs, especially in the
matter of playing troubleshooter between warring factions. I was very much surprised,
yet could but feel greatly honored, when the civil magistrate of the county asked me
to serve with three of the elder statesmen in an effort to bring about a settlement
between two warring clans down on the Lungtien peninsula. This mission was quite
different than serving as middleman in clashes between bands of government soldiers
and bandits. I found myself deeply involved in this work over a period of years.

I was assured what I was being asked to do would prove a very difficult
assignment. The reason for this being that the number of the Ling clan killed in
the village fights far outnumbered those of the Ding clan, and it was felt the Ling
clan would not welcome the appearance of middle-men on the scene until the number of
dead were more nearly even. Later, when it was said that my presence on this team of
troubleshooters was largely responsible for bringing about a settlement in this long
clan fight, I found myself being loudly acclaimed as one in whom everyone had im-
plicit confidence.

Although I found the long, drawn-out work of serving on a team of middle-men
very distasteful, Mrs. Caldwell and I solemnly agreed that I would not back away from
any chance to serve where it was plainly evident I would be serving the common people.
To impress this upon both the civil and the military officials I steadfastly refused
to permit either of them to contribute in any way to the defraying of my expenses when
on a troubleshooting mission. And too, I just as steadfastly refused to accept presents
of any kind for my services. All of this was something entirely different from what

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was usual in such cases.

Several of the bishops of my church with whom I traveled the area, and for whom I served as interpreter, had commended me for the manner in which I made troubleshooting serve as an opportunity for preaching. In this way I reached groups who otherwise would have been difficult to reach with the gospel message. To several of the church dignitaries who inquired how it was I succeeded in entering communities of the confucianist scholars with my gospel message, I replied, "That which affords me entry into these communities is very definitely my contacts with men of influence, obtained by serving with them in the troubleshooting work".

Naturally, my many contacts with both the civil and the military leaders meant I was increasingly taken into their confidence in many things. At one time one of the bishops of the Methodist church who, incidentally, was just as outstanding a statesman as he was a churchman, talked long with me about something that gave him considerable concern. Believing that I had unearthed many facts about undercover operations throughout the province by agents from across the Formosan Channel, he said to me very seriously, "Harry, I recently heard something in Japan which troubles me at times, and I would like to know your reaction to it".

Bishop Bashford then said to me, "Count Okuma who is Premier of Japan said something to me a few weeks ago which puzzles me, and which has given me cause for thought". After a pause, he continued, "The Premier of Japan boasted to me that in the event of war between the United States and his country, Japan could land fifty thousand troops on the Pacific Coast before the United States could move so much as a regiment there, and that within three months from the firing of the first gun the rising sun flag would be flying from the highest peaks in the Rockies". Again there was a long pause, after which the bishop asked, "Harry, what do you think about that kind of talk?"

For a time I hardly knew what to reply. It seemed so preposterous it was difficult to believe the Japanese Premier serious. I finally replied to the bishop that my contacts with the orientals prompted me to believe that oft times a seemingly

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ridiculously bold statement is made for the purpose of putting one off balance in his thinking when, in fact, there is a hidden truth in what is said. In conclusion I said, "Bishop Bashford, after thinking the thing over I confess it disturbs me; I am inclined to believe there is something serious lurking in the mind of the Premier of Japan; it certainly gives one something to wonder about."

Not too many months later I had an occasion to recall the seemingly harmless boasting by the Premier of Japan. I was hurrying across the continent to join my family in Seattle for a return to our work in China. I was traveling on the Chicago Milwaukee and St. Paul Railway. I was sitting in the observation car deep in thought about my work in China. A stranger moved across the aisle and sat beside me.

"You are in deep thought stranger, or is it that you are so much interested in the scenery", the man asked.

I replied, "I am not at all interested in this burned over scenery, but I am interested in this train. I am amazed at how it climbs these grades with so little jostling and jouncing, and how it pulls from a stop with so little jerking".

"This is an electrified train, you know", the man replied, as the train climbed a steep grade in the Cascades. As he enthusiastically explained to me the system of electrification he handed me one of his business cards. I glanced at the card. "John Doe, Chief Electrical Engineer of the Chicago, Milwaukee & St. Paul Railway." I listened with interest as this engineer explained to me how the trains going down one slope of the mountain generates electricity to help pull another train up the other slope.

The train pulled to a stop in a pass stop the Cascades. A track squad of sixteen men strolled along the track with picks and shovels on their shoulders. After looking the men over one by one, I said, "Unless I am mistaken every man in that squad is an oriental", adding, "Every one of those men looks to me like a Japanese".

"You have a good eye, stranger", the engineer replied, "but you seem excited about it; what difference does it make whether they are Japanese or "dagoes"? The Japanese are as good track workmen as the Italians or anyone else. What this rail-

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road is interested in is keeping the line open in the winter".

I sat for a time in deep thought. I was pondering over what I had been told by the bishop in China. Finally, I spoke, "As an engineer of this railway, has it ever occured to you what might be the reason the Japanese are up here on the very backbone of the continent?"

"I know the reason they are here", the man replied. "If there were not a good reason do you suppose they would be here?"

"Brother, I am curious to know just what is the reason you have in mind."

The man squared himself saying, "Well, that is very simple to explain. The reason is this - the Japanese are the only people who will guarantee, under bond, to keep the tunnels and snowsheds open regardless of winter weather. Wouldn't you consider that sufficient reason?"

"Well, what about the other transcontinental railways?" I inquired, "They seem to be able to keep their trains moving in the winter. Why does this line have to employ Japanese, and Japanese only, to keep the road open during winter."

The man replied to this question by explaining that all of the transcontinental lines on the mountain divisions, employed Japanese only. Among other things, as I now recall it, he listed the Great Northern as the first line to employ Japanese, under bond, after which he named just about every other transcontinental line.

I had heard enough. I said with all seriousness, "If I were a betting man I would be willing to wager all that I possess that every man in that track squad has had special military training, and that the Japanese government is the bondsman behind the contract, thus making possible its maintaining Japanese agents astride the backbond of the American continent."

"Japanese soldiers, you say", the man blurted with indignation in his voice. He glared at me exclaiming, "Yellow peril! You are another one of those, always suspicious of the orientals."

"I do not suspect the motives of the orientals as a race," I replied. "I live in the Orient and I have a very good reason for suspecting the Japanese motives for occupying such a vulnerable position on this continental divide. I assure you

-99-

I am not one to harbor prejudice against any man on account of the color of his skin, nor am I one to complacently and blindly live in a fool's paradise."

I excused myself and arose to answer the first call to dinner. Serious thoughts filled my mind as I ate. I wondered what I could do about the situation which I felt might be fraught with grave danger.

Immediately upon arrival at Seattle I wrote a letter to what I thought to be the proper authorities in Washington. I stated first the boast of the Premier of Japan which, I explained, had been brought to my attention by an unimpeachable authority in China. I then related what I had seen with my own eyes atop the continental divide and what the chief engineer of the Chicago, Milwaukee & St. Paul Railway (business card enclosed), had said. I then concluded with these words, "If it is a fact, as I have been assured it is, that every one of our transcontinental railroads employs only Japanese on the continental divide, I can easily conceive of, after a series of simultaneous blasts in the tunnels and snowsheds by these Japanese track squads, the Japanese could probably land divisions of soldiers upon the Pacific Coast before the United States could counter with any appreciable force". After assuring the department I was neither a "warmonger" nor an "alarmist", and that if my communication should be consigned to the waste paper basket there would be no hard feelings, I sealed the letter and dropped it into the letter chute. I then assembled our luggage for the trip to the pier.

We left immediately for China. Several months after I arrived in China I received an official envelope from Washington. It arrived in the care of Roy Chapman Andrews, and I opened it with fear and trembling. I had earlier gone with Mr. Andrews on a scientific expedition into bandit infested areas in Shansi Province after being denied a visa by the Embassy in Peking. I feared I had gotten into real trouble. But I found that the letter was from the Department of Defense acknowledging receipt of my letter of a certain date from Seattle and thanking me for calling attention to a certain important matter. The letter assured me the matter would receive appropriate attention. After again thanking me for the discharge of my patriotic duty, the writer signed off, Brigadier General C--, Department of Defense.