Chao-choo-foo is the next city marked on my itinerary, but as Quang-shi is not on my map I have no means of judging whether Chao-choo-foo is four li up-stream or forty.  All attempts to obtain some idea of the distance from the natives result in the utter bewilderment of both questioned and querist.  No amount of counting on fingers, or marking on paper, or interrogative arching of eyebrows, or repetition of “Chao-choo-foo li” sheds a glimmer of light on the mind of the most intelligent-looking shopkeeper in Quang-shi concerning my wants.  Yet, withal, he courteously bears with my, to him, idiotic pantomime and barbarous pronunciation, and repeats parrot-like after me “Chao-choo-foo li; Chao-choo-foo li” with sundry beaming smiles and friendly smirks.

Far easier, however, is it to make them understand that I want to go to that city by boat.  The loquacious owner of a twenty-foot sampan puts in his appearance as soon as my want is ascertained, and favors me with an unpunctuated speech of some five minutes’ duration.  For fear I shouldn’t quite understand the tenor of his remarks, he insists on thrusting his yellow Mongolian phiz within an inch or two of mine own.  At the end of five minutes I thrust my fingers in my ears out of sheer consideration for his vocal organs, and turn away; but the next moment he is fronting me again, and repeating himself with ever-increasing volubility.  Finding my dulness quite impenetrable, he searches out another loquacious mortal, and by the aid of the tiny beam-scales every Chinaman carries for weighing broken silver, they finally make it understood that for six big rounds (dollars) he will convey me in his boat to Chao-choo-foo.  Understanding this, I promptly engage his services.

Bundles of joss-sticks, rice, fish, pork, and a jar of samshoo (rice arrack) are taken aboard, and by ten o’clock we are underway.  Two men, named respectively Ah Sum and Yung Po, a woman, and a baby of eighteen months comprise the company aboard.  Ah Sum, being but an inconsequential wage-worker, at once assumes the onerous duties of towman; Yung Po, husband, father, and sole proprietor of the sampan, manipulates the rudder, which is in front, and occasionally assists Ah Sum by poling.  The boat-wife stands at the stern and regulates the length of the tow-line; the baby puts in the first few hours in wondering contemplation of myself.

The strange river-life of China is all about us; small fishing-boats are everywhere plying their calling.  They are constructed with a central chamber full of auger-holes for the free admittance of water, in which the fish are conveyed alive to market, or imprisoned during the owner’s pleasure.  Big freight sampans float past, propelled by oars if going down-stream, and by the combined efforts of tow-line and poles if against the current.  The propelling poles are fitted with neatly carved “crutch-trees” to fit the shoulder; the polers, sometimes numbering as many as a dozen, walk back and forth along side-planks and encourage themselves with cries of “ha-i, ha-i, ha-i.”  A peculiar and indescribable inflection would lead one, hearing and not seeing these boatmen, to fancy himself listening to a flight of brants in stormy weather.  Yung Po, poling by himself, gives utterance to a prolonged cry of “Atta-atta-atta aaoo ii,” every time he hustles along the side-plank.