Mr. Salter proved to be remarkably prompt in his measures, and in less than ten minutes Shafto found himself following his flat narrow back down the steep gangway and setting his foot for the first time on the soil of Burma. He halted for a moment to look about. Here was a landmark in his life, a new sphere lay before him; the street was humming and alive with people, and he stared at the jostling, motley crowd of British, Burmese, Chinese, mostly a gaily-clad ever-changing multitude. Among them were shaven priests in yellow robes. Shans in flapping hats; right in front of him stood a stalwart Burman, wearing a white jacket, a pink silk handkerchief, twisted jauntily around his bullet head, and a yellow Lungi, girded to the knee, displayed a three-tailed cat tattooed on the back of each substantial calf. And what a curious, soft and penetrating atmosphere; moist and loaded with unfamiliar, aromatic odours! However, Mr. Salter, a man of action, had no time to spare for contemplation, and briskly hustled the stranger into a waiting taxi—for the old days of the rattling, shattered _gharry_ are numbered. “I suppose this is all new to you?” said Shafto’s acquaintance as they struggled up the crowded Strand, lined with imposing offices and vast _godowns_, or warehouses. “You may say so,” he replied, eagerly gazing at the dense passing throng—animated women with flower-decked hair, square-shouldered, sauntering men, carrying flat umbrellas and smoking huge cheroots, Khaki-clad Tommies and yellow-faced John Chinamen. “Oh, there’s lots to see in Burma,” continued Salter, “an extraordinary mixture of people and races, and a most beautiful country; such splendid rivers and forests—but here, in Rangoon, everyone has but one idea.” In answer to Shafto’s glance of interrogation he said: “We are a commercial community, and our sole aim and object is to work, to get rich, and go home.” “But that doesn’t apply to the native?” “No, the Burman does not work; he is merely a spectator. The industry of others amuses him; his chief object is to enjoy life. Well, here is the hotel; let us go in and have a look at your quarters.” After the baggage had been disposed of and Shafto’s room inspected and criticised, his companion still lingered talking. To Salter, the proverbially eccentric, this new-comer appeared to be an intelligent young fellow whom he would like and take to. There was no superior “just out from London to the back of God-speed” air about him. On the contrary, he appeared to be genuinely interested in his surroundings and insatiable for information. It struck him, too, that the forlorn stranger would put in a mighty dull and solitary evening and, stirred by a benevolent impulse, he said: “Suppose you come back and dine at my diggings? I may be able to give you a few hints as I am an old hand.” “I should be delighted,” assented Shafto, “if it won’t be putting you out?”