At Hsin‐ho everything proceeded without confusion. It might have been an up‐country station in the heart of India. Comfortable huts had been built for the detachment responsible for the guard duties; and the various details were equally well accommodated. The military officers had established themselves in a stone house that had formerly been the quarters of a railway engineer. The Royal Indian Marine officers in charge of the naval transport had settled down with the readiness with which sailors adapt themselves to shore life. A line of felt‐roofed, mud huts had been turned by them into an excellent mess and quarters. A raised terrace looked down on a tennis‐court, on the far side of which a pond in the mud flats, stretching away to the horizon, boasted a couple of canoes. From a tall flagstaff that stood on the terrace floated the blue ensign and Star of India of their Service. The railway siding ran past large and well‐built storehouses. On the river bank long lines of mules were picketed, looking in excellent condition despite the hard work they had gone through. In a little cutting in the bank was an old and tiny steam tug, which had been turned into a condenser for drinking‐water. Everything was trim and tidy. The work of disembarking the stores from the lighters in the river and putting them into the railway trucks almost alongside went on in perfect order, all in marked contrast to the confusion that prevailed at Tong‐ku. Early next morning we were _en route_ for Tientsin. My brother officers and I tramped down through awful mud to the long platform which was dignified by the title of “Hsin‐ho Railway Station.” A small house close by sheltered the railway employees and the telegraph staff, signallers of the Army Telegraph Department. The train from the Tong‐ku terminus soon appeared, and as it steamed in presented a—to us—novel appearance. Leaning out of the windows was a motley crowd of many nationalities. Out of one appeared the heads of a boyish Cossack and a bearded Sikh. The next displayed the chubby face of a German soldier beside the dark features of an Italian sailor. When the train stopped, a smart Australian bluejacket stepped out of the brake‐van. He was the guard. In the corridor cars were Yagers, Austrian sailors, brawny American soldiers, baggy‐trousered Zouave and red‐breeched Chasseur d’Afrique. Sturdy little Japanese infantrymen sat beside tall Bengal Lancers. A small Frenchman chatted volubly with a German trooper from the Lost Provinces. Smart Tommy Atkins gazed in wondering disdain at the smaller Continental soldiers, or listened with an amused smile to the vitriolic comments of a Yankee friend on the manners and appearance of “those darned Dagoes.” And among them, perfectly at his ease, sat the imperturbable Chinaman, apparently a little bored but otherwise quite uninterested in the “foreign devils.”