He drew from the pocket of his ulster a sheaf of papers and looked them rapidly through. "No," he murmured, "zis is botato spirit; zis is batent mangle; zis is edition de luxe _Stones of Venice_; ha! ve haf it: best Birmingham screw. Allow me, vid gombliments." Bob caught Morton’s eye as he pocketed the price list, and strenuously preserving his gravity, said: "Thank you, sir; I shall know where to come. But I fear that with war in the air your journey may not be profitable." "Ah! Zere you mistake, my friend. If it is peace, I sell botato-spirit Birmingham screw Ruskin edition de luxe batent mangle; if it is var—zen I rebresent ze _Düsseldörfer Tageblatt_; ve circulate in Werden, Kettwig, Mülheim, Odenkolin—" "Magnifique!" exclaimed Desjardins. "You save de price of passage in all case. To compete vid you Germans, it is impossible." Herr Schwab smiled indulgently. "Business are business," he said. "In peace, ze Chinese, ze Japanese, ze Russian—zey are all vun to me. But in var, I am instructed by my house—ach! I should say, my journal—to agompany ze Japanese field-army." "By all accounts," said Bob, "it’ll be a case of the patent mangle and not the pen this time. A fellow in the smoking-room has just been saying that there’s no earthly chance of war. He had it from a native merchant in Hong-Kong, and somehow or other they’re always the first to scent out news." "No var!" exclaimed Desjardins. "Vat den shall I do? Vat shall I write for de _Figaro_! I have no patent-mangle!" "You’ll have to write poetry," said Morton; "geishas, plum blossom, and that kind of thing. You’ll be all right. But I’m helpless. Couldn’t do it to save my life; if I could, _Daily Post_ wouldn’t take it. Fawcett will come off best of the lot." "I’m afraid not. They wouldn’t have sent for me to help with their range-finders unless they expected a rumpus, and soon. If there’s no war, I shall get a month’s notice and my passage home.—Hi, steward, how’s the castaway?" The steward came up in answer to Bob’s hail. "Doin’ well, sir; most surprisin’. Doctor himself can’t make it out nohow. Says the Chinee must have the constitootion of a elephant. Captain’s with him this very minute, interviewin’ of him; he can’t speak English, but there’s another Chinee in the steerage that’s doin’ the interpretin’. He’s a big ruffian of a fellow, the castaway, a regular hooligan to look at—and only one ear and all. I’ve just sent some vittles for’ard for him, sir." The steward passed on. A little later, when it became known that the interpreter had returned to his quarters, Bob announced that he was going to see the man, and was at once joined by Monsieur Desjardins and Herr Schwab, the former in eagerness to get material for a paragraph, the latter in obedience to his motto, "Business are business". Morton refused to budge. "Saw plenty of Chinamen, dead and alive, in the war, ten years ago; all alike," he said.