The lads alighting, bidding by sign their rickshas to wait, entered the wide doorway of the bank. Here they met scores of Chinamen pouring continually in and out, depositing or drawing out great sacks of Mexican dollars, the token currency of China. Behind the counters, although the bank was owned by an English corporation, Phil saw only Chinese. Millions of dollars daily passed through their hands. Leaving Sydney gazing interestedly at the scenes of activity, Phil moved over to a desk upon which were paper and ink laid out for the bank customers. As he drew near, he took casual note of a foreigner standing with his back toward the door, engaged apparently in writing. At the man’s feet he saw a neatly folded paper lying. Apparently it had just been dropped from the foreigner’s pocket. Stooping down, Phil picked it up, hastily glancing over it to see if it was of sufficient consequence to ask the stranger if it were his. He had barely time to note that the writing was in English when it was roughly seized from his hand, and looking up in surprise, he found himself confronted by an angry, excited face, whose dark, piercing eyes snapped with uncontrolled passion. The stranger thrust the letter into his pocket with one hand, while the other was closely clenched as if he were about to strike down the innocent offender. “What do you mean by trying to read my letter?” the foreigner cried in a voice full of wrath. The blood mounted to Phil’s forehead as he returned unflinchingly the stranger’s wild look. He was about to answer an apology when the foreigner’s cutting voice stayed him. “Just like you officious Americans,” the stranger exclaimed, surveying the neat blue uniform of the American midshipman; “always meddling in some one else’s affairs.” “What’s the trouble, Phil?” Sydney asked in alarm, hastening to his friend’s side, upon seeing the look on Phil’s face and the menacing attitude of the other. By an effort Phil controlled himself. His first thought was then and there to settle accounts with this infuriated man; but wiser counsel prevailed. “I did not read your letter,” he retorted in a dignified voice. “I wished only to see if it was of any consequence in order to restore it to its owner.” Then realizing that his conciliating answer had not changed the attitude of the stranger, he added in a voice of self-contained anger: “If you got what you deserved, it would be a sound thrashing for your slanderous tongue.” The foreigner, hearing the lad’s just rebuke, and seeing by his muscular frame that he was capable of carrying his implied threat into execution, shrugged his shoulders eloquently, pocketed his papers and walked sullenly toward the door of the bank. Phil stood his ground, his eyes defiantly following the stranger until the swinging doors closed behind him. Sydney was told of the cause of the unexpected dispute and was eager to follow the foreigner and demand an apology, but Phil only laughed.