Contraband of war could not be conveyed through neutral territory, and in order that there might not be any mistake as to what was contraband, the Chinese authorities scheduled almost everything. Hogs’ bristles, I think, were the only notable exception. The Russian officials did not object to anything conveyed, so long as it was intended for the Russian army, but the Japanese objected, and their agents kept a close watch on everything and everybody going north from Shanhaikwan; all the same the Russians smuggled with success. Then an attempt was made by the Russians to obtain their object by legitimate means. The Russian doctor in charge of the Red Cross establishments supposed he was right in believing that supplies for the Red Cross hospitals were not in any circumstances to be regarded as contraband of war. The railway authorities confirmed him in the belief. He wanted 120,000 fire-bricks and a thousand tons of fire-clay. Now, these bricks and such clay make excellent facings to fortresses, and were contraband of war. But, if he wanted them? He would not get them. Then after dusk one evening some trucks, filled high with bales of hogs’ bristles, arrived at Yingkow, and they were shunted down to the wharf. Something about these bales attracted the attention of one of the English inspectors: he made a closer examination, and discovered that the hogs’ bristles concealed cases of ammunition. Those trucks went back before daylight broke and before the consignee knew they had arrived. At Shanhaikwan, when suspected goods had to be examined, or refused, or confiscated, the work fell invariably to one or other of the young railway guards, all time-expired, short-service men from the British army. The Chinese officials will never face a determined European. I doubt whether they ever will acquire the courage to do so. One day a Russian political agent, known to every one on the line, arrived with a lot of baggage he was taking north on the morrow. Some of the contents of his luggage had been manufactured in France, its shipment had been notified by a Japanese agent, and its subsequent movements followed with fidelity; now, when within a few hours’ journey of the Russian lines, was it to be stopped by a British stripling? The great man expostulated, threatened and fumed to no purpose. He went on without his luggage, complaining to every railway official he met of the absurdity of seizing his uniforms. He could not appear before the Viceroy Alexeiev dressed like a British tourist! Everyone promised to do what they could in order to get that baggage sent forward, and the diplomat even communicated with Peking, so sad was his plight. In the course of a few days the decisive answer came; the gentleman could _not_ have his war balloon. Shortly afterwards a dispirited French aeronaut took his way south.