A few black, formidable‐looking cigars were now placed upon the table. Mindful of the vile odours that inevitably possess the filthy streets of the native towns in China, we took some. Then as our escort appeared in the courtyard in front of the house, we rose. Expressing profuse thanks to our courteous host through the interpreter, we folded our hands and bowed ourselves out in the politest Chinese fashion. Following our military guides, we entered the town. They led us first to the house of a lesser mandarin, whom we visited. He was as surly as his superior was amiable. He very speedily ordered tea for us as a sign of dismissal. However, as a mark of attention, he sent two lantern‐bearers to accompany us. Quitting him with little hesitation, we followed our escort and plunged again into the town. The streets were narrow and indescribably filthy. Deep, open drains bordered them, filled with refuse. Extending our arms, we could nearly touch the houses on each side. On either hand were shops, some with glass‐windowed fronts, others open to the street. Some were fairly extensive, filled with garments or rolls of cloth. Others exhibited for sale clocks, cheap embroidery, tinsel jewellery, or common pottery. Every third one at least sold food, raw or cooked. Dried fish or ducks split open, the heads and necks of the latter attached to the bodies; pork, meat, and sucking‐pigs; rice, flour, or vegetables. Near one shop stood a grinning Chinaman who spoke to us in pidgin‐English. Beside him was an open barrel filled with what looked like dried prunes. I pointed to them and asked what they were. “That?” he said, popping one into his mouth and munching it with evident relish. “That belong cocky‐loachee. Velly good!” They were dried cockroaches! Farther on another pig‐tailed individual spoke to us in fluent English with a Yankee twang. “Do you live in Samchun?” I asked him, in surprise. “Not much, you bet!” he replied. “I don’t belong to this darned country any more. I live in ’Frisco.” He explained that he had come to Hong Kong as a sailor on an American vessel, and had wandered out to Samchun to see a relative. With a “So long, boss!” from him we passed on. Every fifth or sixth house was a gambling‐den. Around the tables were seated Chinamen of all ages engaged in playing _fan‐tan_, that slowest and most exasperating of all methods of “plunging.” The interiors of these establishments were gay with much elaborate gilt carving.