The trail led over the same treeless rolling hills through which we had passed on the previous afternoon.  There was only one village, but it was surrounded by poppy fields in full blossom.  It must be a rather difficult matter for a native living in China near the border to understand why he should not be allowed to produce the lucrative opium while only a few yards away, over an imaginary line, it can be planted without restriction.  Poppies seem to grow on hillsides better than on level ground.  The plants begin to blossom in late February and the petals, when about to fall, are collected for the purpose of making “leaves” with which to cover the balls of opium.  The seed pods which are left after the petals drop off are scarified vertically, at intervals of two or three days, by means of a sharp cutting instrument.  The operation is usually performed about four o’clock in the afternoon, and the opium, in the form of dried juice, is collected the next morning.  When China, in 1906, forbade the consumption of opium and the growing of poppies, it was estimated that there were from twenty-five to thirty millions of smokers in the Empire.

We reached Ma-li-pa about one o’clock in the afternoon and found it to be a straggling village built on two sides of a deep ravine, with a mixed population of Shans and Chinese.  It happened to be the weekly market day and the “bazaar” was crowded.  A number of Indian soldiers in khaki were standing about, and I called out to Roy, “I wonder if any of them speak English.”  Instantly a little fellow approached, with cap in hand, and said, “Yes, Madame, I speak English.”

One cannot realize how strange it seemed to hear our own language from a native in this out-of-the-way spot!  He was the “compounder,” or medical assistant, and told us that the hundred native troops were in charge of a white officer whose house was on the opposite side of the river gorge.  He guided us to a temple and, while the mules were being unloaded, in walked a tall, handsome young British officer who introduced himself as Captain Clive.  He was almost speechless with surprise at seeing me, for he had not spoken a sentence in English or seen a white person since his arrival at this lonely post five months before.

He asked us at once to come to his quarters for tiffin and we accepted gladly.  On the way he gave us our first news of the outside world, for we had been beyond communication of any sort for months, and we learned that the United States had severed diplomatic relations with Germany.

Captain Clive’s bungalow was a two-room bamboo house with a broad veranda and thatched with straw.  It was delightfully cool and dark after the glare of the yellow sun-baked plains about us, and in perfect order.  The care which Britishers take to keep from “letting down” while guarding the frontiers of their vast empire is proverbial, and Captain Clive was a splendid example of the Indian officer.  He was as clean-shaved and well-groomed as though he had been expecting us for days and the tiffin to which we sat down was as dainty and well served as it could have been in the midst of civilization.