We had our little worries day by day. Whenever we needed roubles, they were at a big premium in Newchwang, when we wanted Mexican dollars roubles were at a discount, and as Mexicans were not forthcoming we were loaded up with Pei-yang coins, Kirin currency and small money, whilst the fiction of the Haikwan tael was rammed down our throats, and was as hard to swallow as stories of Russian successes on the field of battle. An American journalist got no war news worth a cent, but of his experiences he made an article on the “financial pirates of the east,” which justified the expense his paper incurred by his expedition. One correspondent thought it was time to learn Russian, and having got the one word “Good-day” at the end of his tongue, he tried it upon the first sentry who challenged him. There followed a one-sided conversation, the sentry becoming choleric and the correspondent answering “Good-day” calmly to every phrase the other uttered. Another bought a pair of English riding boots across the river and carried them home. Wrapping-up paper was not procurable, and the correspondent with his boots attracted the attention of the police. As he was unable to explain matters, either in Chinese or Russian, he had difficulty in continuing his journey homeward. If the police had known how many pairs of riding boots that correspondent had in his room, they would undoubtedly have considered themselves justified in detaining him indefinitely. There was one correspondent, representing a journal of world-wide renown, who whenever he got into a difficulty never gave his name, but always that of his paper. Riding along the native bund one day, his pony seized some carrots from the stall of a Chinese market man and munched them. The correspondent tendered some money, but he was mobbed by the Chinese and Russians, and the police wanted some other explanation than _Weekly Post_, which he kept on repeating. As he told the story: “Sure, Greener, there’s nae body heerd o’ the _Weekly Post_ in these parts, and I made bould to mintion your peeper,--wi’ nae’ bitter effect. Then I sae ain o’ those enamelled signs o’ the _Daily Telegraph’s_; it’s just bent round a forge fire. An’ I went to’t, and tapped it with me whip, and signed wi’ my hands that I was it. But they wouldna’ understand! I think maybe they thought I wanted the sign just as my pony wanted the carrots, an’ I doant nae what might have happened me had na’ one o’ the coostoms men passed by and exthricated me. Sich fules! What is’t you say for War Correspondent? Eh? Say it again.”