Here was a different fellow from Douglas Shafto of "Malahide." He seemed
to have cast off a load of care; the cramped, monotonous life, his
mother's hard indifference, the octopus-like Cossie, all had slipped from
his shoulders and were figuratively buried in the heaving, dark blue sea.
What delicious hours of tranquil ease were enjoyed in a steamer chair;
hours when he looked on the past five years as a distant and fading dream!

As he paced the deck with a companion he learnt many strange things. Odd
bits of half-told stories, confidences respecting some girl, or some
ambition--and now and then a warning.

"You are so new and green to the East," said Hoskins, his first friend, a
police officer returning from short leave. "You had better keep your
eyes skinned! Rangoon is not like India, but a roaring busy seaport,
where every soul is on the make. You will find various elements there,
besides British and Burmese. Tribes from Upper Burma, Tibetans, Hindoos,
Malays, Chinese and, above all, Germans. They do an enormous trade, and
have many substantial firms and houses, and put through as much business
as, or more than, we do ourselves. No job is too small, no order too
insignificant for their prompt attention. They have agents all over the
country, who pull strings in wolfram and the ruby mines, and have a
finger in every mortal thing. I'll say this for them, they're most
awfully keen and industrious, and stick at nothing to earn the nimble
rupee, underselling when they can, and grabbing contracts and trade
secrets. Some of these days they will mine us out of Burma!"

"So I see they needn't go to you for a character," remarked Shafto.

"Oh, they are not all tarred with the same brush! I have some good pals
in the German Club--fellows that are as straight as a die. Is this your