Five-thirty in the morning; daylight; sixty miles put behind. Ahead far in the new day he discerned the Japanese outposts of Fengmarong; and on the right hand was the big, mottled Liao, swollen with flood. If he were to be detained by the Japanese, he preferred it to be on the opposite bank--the Wangcheng side. Routledge rode up to the ferry-scow and called for service. Yellow babies were playing like cinnamon-cubs on the shore; two women were cooking rice and fish; two men were asleep in the sail-tackle. These he aroused. They helped him with the horses, half-lifting the weary, trembling beasts aboard. Cups of tea; rice with black dressing, as the scow made the opposite landing at a forty-five degree angle! A quick and safe crossing; and two hours for the Japanese lines, the American Consul, and the Chinese Eastern!... A distant call through the morning light! Bingley, horseless, imperiously demands the return of the craft to the Fengmorang bank. Routledge had hoped to be missed by the other, at least until train-time. He smiled at the compelling incidents of the race thus far, and at the surpassing prospects--even though he chilled at the thought that the Japanese in Wangcheng would have big excuse to detain him if Bingley intimated that his rival had once betrayed England to the Russian spies on the Indian border. Consul Milner would sweat, indeed, to free him against that.... Yet Routledge had a feeling that he would win against Bingley. Work had always favored him. So far he had borne out the prophecy that he would not be wounded in battle, in a manner past astonishment. It was no less than a miracle--his escape from the firing of both armies at Liaoyang. Often during the night-ride he had thought of the wound that was to come to him--thought with a chill of dread of the lawless country he passed through. Now, with Wangcheng ahead, and in touch with the safe-lines of foreign-travel--the chance seemed minimized once more. There must be significance in this.... He looked back and saw the Chinese beating up against the river to the Fengmarong landing, where Bingley waited, doubtless frothing his curb. At the edge of the town Routledge was arrested by a five-foot Japanese sentry, and was locked with his world tidings in a garrison, lately Russian, which overlooked Wangcheng’s little square. He wrote “A. V. Weed” on a slip of paper and asked to have it taken to Consul Milner; then sat down by the barred window to watch the Consulate across the Square. It was now seven o’clock. The train left in an hour, and the station was a mile away. Minutes dragged by.