"Well, I've always been a little afraid of Miss Reed," he said; "maybe the Cantonese will feel the same way." "It seems to me I smell smoke," said Megan. "You probably do. Chapei is not far." Megan looked out of the window. She could see the patrols on the Garden Bridge, Spanish marines from the _Blas de Lezo_. In the ballroom of the hotel the orchestra was tuning up for the tea dance which began at five. "Do let us go and walk a little," she said. "If you are not too tired, let us walk toward Chapei." Mr. Jackson thought they would not get very far, but he got up and Mrs. Jackson reluctantly followed. They walked along North Szechuen Road. There were so many Chinese on the sidewalks, they had to elbow their way through. The Chinese stood about not moving, not even talking much. There was none of the nervous activity of Nanking Road. They stood looking dully at the passing motorcars, wheelbarrows, rickshaws, loaded with the refugees pouring in from Chapei. Several stretchers passed, carried by coolies. On one a Japanese child in a gaudy kimono lay face downward, joggling helplessly. "Most of the Japanese live this way," Mr. Jackson called over his shoulder. He walked ahead of them, elbowing his way along. "There must be sniping going on." A Sikh stopped them and told them by signs that they could go no farther. He held out his arms and made a pantomime of shooting. "Click, click," he said, "plenty shoot." His face crinkled into smiles, his eyes nearly shut, his teeth and tongue showed in the midst of his handsome black beard; his smile was so infectious they could not help smiling with him and liking him. They stood for a moment, feeling friendly but not knowing what to do. Then the Sikh moved off and they turned up Range Road, a street of red brick houses with small garden plots in front behind brick walls, like a street in an English Midland town or in a London suburb. The street was nearly empty and instead of sky a great cloud of smoke rolled up from behind the roofs. There was an all-pervading acrid smell of charred wood and burning paints and varnish. At the far end was some sort of barricade with a few people standing before it. They walked down toward it, wondering why the street was so empty and hearing every now and then a soft spat on the walls of the opposite side. Suddenly Megan almost tripped over a bundle that looked as if it might have been dropped from a passing truck, and saw other bundles lying about, gray, the color of the road itself. They were Northern soldiers in gray woolen uniforms. One lay with his head hidden on his arm as if asleep; another, his face turned toward the sky, was as livid as though a green light had been turned on him, and still another had his arms stretched out in an arrested, a histrionic gesture of abandon. Megan noticed his hands, which were very plump and delicate; they reminded her of the hands of the man in the wrecked car. Mr. Jackson shook his head over them.