As we journeyed on to Shanhaikwan the country began to lose its flat appearance. Low, tree‐clad eminences broke the level monotony of the landscape; and the train passed close to a line of rugged hills. In their recesses bands of brigands were reported to be lurking, so we had the pleasant excitement of speculating on the chances of the train being held up by some of these gentry. But without mishap we reached our destination about half‐past six o’clock in the evening. The railway station of Shanhaikwan was large and well built, with roomy offices and a long platform. There were, besides, engine sheds, machinery shops, yards, and houses for the European employees, all of which had been seized by the Russians. We were met on our arrival by some officers of the Gurkha Regiment in garrison, to whom we had written from Tientsin to ask if they could find quarters for us. But as they were exceedingly short of accommodation for themselves, being crowded together in wretched Chinese hovels, they received us with expressions of regret that they were unable to find room for all our party. The two junior ones must seek shelter for themselves. I, unfortunately, was one. There was no hotel or inn of any sort. My companion in distress, luckily for himself, had a friend in a squadron of the 3rd Bombay Cavalry, quartered in one of the forts, and set off to request his hospitality. So our party separated; and I was left stranded on the platform with no prospect of a bed, and, worse still, not the faintest idea as to where to get a meal. On appealing to a British railway employee, I found that there were two military officers in charge of the station—one English, the other Russian; for the portion of the line held by the latter nationality began, as I have said, at Shanhaikwan. Both had quarters in the station, but both, unfortunately, had gone out to dinner; and there was no likelihood of their return before midnight. Taking pity on my distress, this employee promised to send me down a Chinese cane bed from his house, and then went off, leaving me to brood over the hopelessness of my situation. I sat down on a bench and cursed the name of Shanhaikwan. The lunch at Tongshan seemed by now a very far‐off memory; and I endeavoured to allay the pangs of hunger with a cigar. As I meditated on the inefficacy of tobacco as a substitute for food, I saw the door of a room marked “Telegraph Office” open and a smart bombardier of the Royal Marine Artillery emerge. On seeing me he saluted, and, snatching at every straw, I called him over and asked him if he knew of any place where I could get anything to eat. He told me of the existence of a low café, patronised by the Continental soldiers of the garrison, where I might possibly obtain some sort of a meal. I jumped eagerly at the chance; and, calling one of the Chinese railway porters to guide us, he offered to show me the way. Quitting the station, we entered