Along the coast we steam, gazing at its interminable masses of green hills, until it suddenly recedes into a wide bay surrounded on every side by high land. This is Deep Bay, an expanse twenty‐five miles in extent which, though now covered by the sea, becomes at low tide one vast mud flat, with a small stream winding through the noisome ooze. Towards the land on the right we head. Far out from shore lies a trim, white gunboat. From the stern floats the yellow Imperial standard of China with its sprawling dragon; for the vessel belongs to the Maritime Customs Service. On the decks brass machine‐guns glitter. A European in white clothing watches us through binoculars from the poop. The Chinese crew in blue uniforms, with pigtails coiled up under their straw hats, are spreading an awning. At length we reach the mouth of the Samchun River, a small tidal stream, which, when the sea is low, is scarcely eighteen inches deep. Up between its winding banks we steam. High hills rise up on each side. We pray that neither rebel nor hostile Imperial soldier is waiting here to stop our coming; for a machine‐gun or a few rifles would play havoc with our men crowded together on the little launches. Up the river we go in single file, playing “follow my leader” as the first launch swings sharply round the frequent curves. By virtue of my position “on the Staff,” I am aboard it and am consequently resentful when a bump and a prolonged scraping under the keel tell us that we have gone aground. The next launch avoids the shoal and passes us, its occupants flinging sarcastic remarks and unkind jibes at us as they go by. But “pride cometh before a fall,” and a little farther on their Chinese steersman runs them high and dry. Then the others leave us behind until by dint of poling we float again and follow in their wake. Round a bend in the river we swing; and ahead of us we see a number of weird‐looking Chinese war‐junks. From their masts stream huge pennants and gaudy flags of many colours; on their decks stand old muzzle‐loading, smooth‐bore cannon. Their high, square sterns tower above the banks. The motley‐garbed crews are squatting about, engaged with chop‐sticks and bowls of rice. The sudden appearance of our flotilla crowded with armed men startles them. They drop their food and spring up to stare at us, uncertain whether to bolt ashore or continue their interrupted meal. Seeing no signs of hostility on our part, they grin placatingly and shout remarks to us, the tenor of which it is perhaps as well that we do not understand. These are Government war‐junks and, like the Customs steamer outside, are stationed here to prevent assistance reaching the rebels from the sea; but anyone who had successfully forced their way past the gunboat would have little to fear from these ill‐armed Noah’s Arks. Close by stand a few substantial buildings—a Customs station. From the verandah of a bungalow two white men in charge of it watch us as we go by.