odor as one finds in a tailor's repair shop, or in the place of a dealer
in second-hand clothing.

Second-hand clothing, that was Wo Cheng's line. But it was a rather
unusual shop he kept. Being a Chinaman, he could adapt himself to
circumstances, at least within his own realm, which was clothes. His
establishment had grown up out of the grim necessity and dire pressure
of war. Not that the pressure was on his own person; far from that.
Somewhere back in China this crafty fellow was accumulating a fortune.
He was making it in this dim, taper-lighted, secret shop, opening off an
alley in Vladivostok.

In these times of shifting scenes, when the rich of to-day were the poor
of to-morrow, or at least were under the necessity of feigning poverty,
there were many people who wished to change their station in life, and
that very quickly. It was Wo Cheng's business to help them make this
change. Many a Russian noble had sought this noisome shop to exchange
his "purple and fine linen" for very humble garb, and just what he took
from the pockets of one and put in the pockets of the other suit, Wo
Cheng had a way of guessing, though he appeared not to see at all.

Johnny had known Wo Cheng for some time. He had discovered his shop by
accident when out scouting for billets for American soldiers. He had
later assisted in protecting the place from a raid by Japanese military
police.

"You wanchee somsling?" The Oriental grinned, as Johnny seated himself
cross-legged on a grass mat.

"Yep," Johnny grinned in return, "wanchee change." He gripped the lapel