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Across China on Foot by Edwin John Dingle
page 13 of 378 (03%)

The average man in Europe and America does not know that this great
metropolis of the Far East is far removed from salt water, and that it
is the first point on entering the Yangtze-kiang at which a port could
be established. It is twelve miles up the Whang-poo. Junks whirled past
with curious tattered brown sails, resembling dilapidated verandah
blinds, merchantmen were there flying the flags of the nations of the
world, all churning up the yellow stream as they hurried to catch the
flood-tide at the bar. Then came the din of disembarkation. Enthusiastic
hotel-runners, hard-worked coolies, rickshaw men, professional Chinese
beggars, and the inevitable hangers-on of a large eastern city crowded
around me to turn an honest or dishonest penny. Some rude, rough-hewn
lout, covered with grease and coal-dust, pushed bang against me and
hurled me without ceremony from his path. My baggage, meantime, was
thrown onto a two-wheeled van, drawn by four of those poor human beasts
of burden--how horrible to have been born a Chinese coolie!--and I was
whirled away to my hotel for tucker. The French mail had given us coffee
and rolls at six, but the excitement of landing at a foreign port does
not usually produce the net amount of satisfaction to or make for the
sustenance of the inner man of the phlegmatic Englishman, as with the
wilder-natured Frenchman. Therefore were our spirits ruffled.

However, my companion and I fed later.

Subsequently to this we agreed not to be drawn to the clubs or mix in
the social life of Shanghai, but to consider ourselves as two beings
entirely apart from the sixteen thousand and twenty-three Britishers,
Americans, Frenchmen, Germans, Russians, Danes, Portuguese, and other
sundry internationals at that moment at Shanghai. They lived there: we
were soon to leave.
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