Gubbins had proved full of energy and had been able to walk the famous Kwa Niu round the course, a great advance, as for some time the animal had refused to go between the rails at any price. Now Gubbins was confident that if Kwa Niu started he’d either win or savage every other pony on the track. At last the opening day arrived. A Ping Tu race-meeting is worthy of a short description. The racecourse is situated some two miles from the town, and is approached by a good road. The track is laid round a hollow, oval in shape, nearly seven furlongs in length, bounded on one side by the river and on the other by low scrubby hills. The centre is cultivated by market-gardeners to the n-th term. On the outer side, when turning the corner to come down the straight to the winning-post, is a thick clump of screw-pines, but more of that clump anon. Opposite the winning-post is the grand-stand, built of brick, with stalls beneath for the stabling of the ponies. Every lady in Ping Tu goes to the races because she has a new dress from England for the occasion, and every man goes because he has a pony entered or, at least, a share of a pony. There is a paddock of hard bamboo grass, a bar, and a fenced-in promenade for ladies and members, outside which the Chinese swarm in every degree of blue cotton garment, from the newest and most stiff of the well-to-do to the washed-out and carefully-patched garments of the impecunious. You can depend on fine weather in the month of February in Ping Tu; so every lady feels happy knowing she can wear her best clothes. There is a general air of holiday in the community when the races begin, business is at a standstill, the men repair to the Club and split their pints of “the boy,” while the ladies put the finishing touches to their toilets. And now everyone is arriving on the course, the English, French, Russian, German, and other Consuls with their wives. The members of all the “hongs,” or business firms, with their belongings, and lastly Cretes, Jews, Arabians, etc., as it says in the Book of Common Prayer. The British Consul had brought his consular guard of twelve Sikh police, and the Military Governor of Whang Chai had just returned in time to witness the races, and arrived that morning with two hundred Chinese troops to keep the course clear. All was bustle and excitement, the popping of champagne corks mingled with the pleasant hum of innumerable voices, and the Chinese Military Governor, with his Cambridge education, moved everywhere among the assembled crowd talking in perfect English. Foh, the military official of Whang Chai, had only arrived at his headquarters the day before, and although deeply concerned at finding the mission gutted and at the outrageous treatment Shelford had received, his sporting instincts had led him to attend the races before executing summary justice upon the perpetrators of the outrage. So far Foh had had no opportunity of speaking to Shelford.