The three chums soon made Shafto feel at ease and at home; they were lively companions, too. Roscoe was a capital mimic, and kept his company in roars of laughter. FitzGerald drew notable caricatures and could tell a story with the best. “The MacNab,” who had a certain dry wit, took the stranger firmly in hand with regard to finance—namely, the furnishing of his room and other expenditure. “Bide a wee; go slow at first,” he advised. “Just hire a few sticks from Whiteway and Laidlaw, and wait your chance for picking up bargains at Balthasar’s auction rooms; anyway, you don’t want much. A bed, a couple of chairs, table, washstand and tub. I have a chest of drawers I can let you have cheap. In the rains the pictures fall out of their frames, the glue melts, rugs are eaten by white ants in a few hours—and your boots grow mushrooms.” “That’s a cheerful look out!” exclaimed Shafto. “Well, I have nothing to tempt the white ants.” Shafto was adaptable and soon found his feet. At first his entire time and energies were concentrated on his new job and learning an unaccustomed task; he spent hours on the wharves along the Strand, or across the river at Dallah, standing about in the glare, and dust and blazing sun, amongst struggling, sweating coolies and swinging cranes. He had also to supervise his Eurasian subordinates, see paddy shipped, and keep a sharp look out for their delinquencies, such as receiving “palm oil,” or overlooking damages. In the midst of his daily work Shafto was not insensible to his surroundings, but, on the contrary, acutely alive to the strange bewildering glamour of the East, where life dwells radiantly. He was interested in the ever-changing shipping, the crowds of strange craft lying by the wharves or moored to buoys in the great impetuous Irrawaddy, and the swarms of sampans darting in all directions. Overhead was the hot blue sky, blazing upon a motley crowd, which included the smiling faces of the idle, insouciant, gaily-clad Burmans—most genial and most engaging of nations. Down by the _godowns_, where Shafto worked, the stir and press of commercial life was tremendous; on every side roared and dashed trams, motor-lorries, traction engines and—curious anachronism—long strings of heavily-laden bullock carts. Here was trade from the ends and corners of the earth; out of her abundance this rich country was shipping to the nations wood, oil, rice, metals, cotton, tea, silken stuffs, ivory, jade, and precious stones; masses of cargo lay piled on the wharves, amid which a multitude of noisy coolies, busy as ants, went to and fro incessantly, whilst in the distance the saw-mills screamed, the steam dredgers clanked, and tall factory chimneys blackened the heavens. All this amazing restless activity seemed strangely out of its natural perspective; the scene should have been laid in Liverpool or Glasgow, instead of displaying a background of palms, tropical trees, gilded pagodas, and a circle of gaily-dressed, idle natives.