Johnny's jaw dropped, and he barely checked a gasp, as through his
screen of furs he saw the man who now entered Wo Cheng's den of
disguises. He was none other than the man of the street fight, the short
one of the broad shoulders and sharp chin. Johnny was surprised in more
ways than one; surprised that the man was here at all; that it could
have been he who had given that authoritative signal at the door, and
most of all, surprised that Wo Cheng should have admitted him so
readily, and should be treating him with such deference.

"Evidently," Johnny thought to himself, "this fellow has been here
before."

Although unquestionably a Russian, the newcomer appeared quite equal to
the task of making his wants known in Chinese, for after a moment's
conversation the two men made their way toward the back of the room.

Johnny had his second shock when he saw the garments the Russian began
to examine. They were no other than those which had twice before in the
last hour been examined by customers, the clothing for the Far North.
This was too much. Again, he barely checked a gasp. Was the entire
population of the city about to move to the polar regions? He would ask
Wo Cheng. In the meantime, Johnny prayed that the Russian might make his
choice speedily, since the time of departure of his train was
approaching.

The Russian made his selections, apparently more from a sense of taste
than with an eye to warmth and service. This final choice was a suit of
squirrel skin and boots of deer skin.

"Cumshaw?"