At Koupangtze, the half-way station, there was a stop for ten minutes. Bingley improved the time by close conversation with an Englishman on the station platform. Routledge, who remained in his compartment, wondered with animation, as Bingley passed the other a sum of money, if he were arranging with the Englishman to telegraph for a horse to meet _him_ at the train in Shanhaikwan. Could there be two fastest horses at the end of the run? All that afternoon, as they crossed the brownest, most level and ancient country on earth, two correspondents toiled with words and a battle. At the little town of Shenkau, Routledge heard the name of “Weed” called in a laughable intonation by a Chinese boy on the platform. He reached out and took the telegram. Milner had not allowed a single sentence to suffice. Here is the message: Oyama entered Liaoyang to-day. Russians in flight to Mukden. Russian rear-guard still fighting. Flanking movement successful. Show ’em pictures. The gods of war had been good to him, indeed. He ran the telegram entire, at the head of his story. An hour later the Great Wall appeared to his tired eyes. His capacity to express or thrill at a thought was utterly gone. Every film of the battle which his brain had caught, all that he had desired to say, had been re-done in pencil. He folded the sheets and put them away with his credentials and cable-frank. The early twilight was soft and warm. The Great Wall cast a long shadow as the train passed through its single break. The sea was gilded and crimson-touched with the sunset. Shanhaikwan station is but a half-mile from the Wall. Already huts and burial-mounds were passed--dull brown in the dusk.... They were in a free land now; the zone of war and censorship lay behind. It was a dramatic moment. Each correspondent arose. Each correspondent glanced at the heels of the other and found _spurs_! Bingley made his way toward the rear-platform; Routledge took the other. Leaning far out, as the train pulled into the station, Routledge saw Borden and the black stallion--hopped off and ran to him. A China-boy holding the nervous, prick-eared mount stood beside the Combined Press man. Routledge leaped into the saddle. With the tail of his eye he saw Bingley rushing along the platform toward a gray mount. “They’re looking for you at the cable-office,” Borden yelled. “Don’t burn out the wire!”