Not the least remarkable of the many curious phases of this extraordinary campaign was the rapidity with which, when order had been restored, the Chinese settled down again in Pekin. A few months after the fall of the capital its streets, to a casual observer, had resumed their ordinary appearance; but the wrecked houses, the foreign flags everywhere displayed, the absence of the native upper classes, and the presence of the soldiers of the Allies marked the change. Burly Russian and lithe Sikh, dapper little Japanese and yellow‐haired Teuton roughly shouldered the Celestial aside in the streets, where formerly the white man had passed hurriedly along in momentary dread of insult and assault. But in the presence of the strict discipline of the troops after the first excesses the Chinaman speedily recovered his contempt—veiled though it was now perforce—for the foreign devil. Ricksha coolies argued over their fare, where not long before a blow would have been the only payment vouchsafed or expected. Lounging crowds of Chinese on the sidepaths refused to make way for European officers until forcibly reminded that they belonged to a vanquished nation. Shops that had any of their contents left after the fairly complete looting the city had undergone opened again, the proprietors demanding prices for their goods that promised to rapidly recoup them for their losses. Vehicles of all kinds filled the streets, which were soon as interesting as they had been before the advent of the Allies—and a great deal safer. Pekin carts rattled past strings of laden Tartar camels, which plodded along with noiseless footfall and the weary air of haughty boredom of their kind. Coolies with streaming bodies ran their rickshas over the uneven roadway. Heavy transport waggons, drawn by European and American horses or stout Chinese mules, rumbled through the deep dust or heavy mud. And, thanks to the cleansing efforts of the Allies, the formerly most noticeable feature of Pekin was absent—its overpowering stench.