ver, and to banish the whole
troublesome world from his thoughts, by producing his opium-pipe and lamp
and attempting to smoke. But just as he is getting comfortably settled
down to rolling the little knob of opium on the needle and has puckered
his lips for a good pull, a decayed turnip comes sailing through the open
panel and hits him on the back. The people looking in add insult to
injury by indulging in an audible snicker, as Ching-We springs up and
glares savagely into their faces. This indiscreet expression of their
levity at once seals their doom, for Ching-We grabs a pole and hits the
boards such a resounding whack, and advances upon them so savagely, that
only a few undaunted youngsters remain at their post; the panel is
repaired, and comparative peace and quiet restored for a short time. No
sooner, however, has Ching-We mounted to the first story of heavenly
beatitude from the effects of the first pipe of opium, than loud howls of
"Fankwae. Fankwae!" are heard outside, and a shower of stones comes
rattling against the boards. Ching-We goes to the partition door and
indulges in an angry and reproachful attack upon the unoffending head of
the establishment. The unoffending head of the establishment goes
immediately to the other door and indulges in an angry and reproachful
attack upon the shouters and stone-throwers outside. The Chinese are
peculiar in many things, and in nothing, perhaps, more than their respect
for words of reproach. Whether the long-suffering innkeeper hurled at
their heads one of the moral maxims of Confucius, or an original
production of his own brain, is outside the pale of my comprehension; but
whatever it is, there is no more disturbance outside.

It must be about midnight when I am awakened from a deep sleep by the
gabble of many people in the room. Transparent lanterns adorned with big
red characters held close to my face cause me to blink like a cat upon
opening my wondering eyes. These lanterns are held by yameni-runners in
semi-military garb, to light up my features for the inspection of an
officer wearing a rakish Tartar hat with a brass button and a red
horse-hair tassel. The yameni-runners wear the same general style of
head-dress, but with a loop instead of the brass button. The officer is
possessed of a wonderfully soft, musical voice, and holds forth at great
length concerning me, with Ching-We.

The officer takes my passport to the yamen, and ere leaving the room,
pantomimic