It was not to be expected that Shafto would see one familiar face, and he felt completely “out of it,” as he took a scat at a draughty table between two elderly people, whose interest was entirely concentrated upon their meals and the weather.

The second day proved rough and wet and the smoking-room was crowded.  Here Shafto made an acquaintance with a well-set-up, weather-beaten young man, his neighbour.  Finding they had similar tastes with regard to cigars and boots, they proceeded to cement an acquaintance.  Hoskins was the name of Shafto’s companion, and after half an hour’s lively talk, he exclaimed: 

“I say, look here, we must dig you out of ‘the Potter’s Field,’ and bring you to our table.”

“What do you mean by ’the Potter’s Field’?”

“Why, to bury strangers in!  We bury dull folk and such-like in the table near the door; but I’ll speak to the head steward and get you moved.”

And before the next meal Shafto’s transition was an accomplished fact, and he found himself one of a merry and congenial circle.  In his novel and detached position he realised a sense of independence; he was breathing a new existence, an exhilarating atmosphere, and enjoying every hour of the day.

At table and in the smoke-room he picked up a certain amount of useful information respecting Burma, listened to many a “Don’t” with polite attention, and was offered the address of a fairly good chummery in Rangoon.  As he could play bridge without letting down his partners, was active at deck sports, and invariably cheery and obliging, he soon gained that effervescent prize, “board-ship popularity.”

Here was a different fellow from Douglas Shafto of “Malahide.”  He seemed to have cast off a load of care; the cramped, monotonous life, his mother’s hard indifference, the octopus-like Cossie, all had slipped from his shoulders and were figuratively buried in the heaving, dark blue sea.  What delicious hours of tranquil ease were enjoyed in a steamer chair; hours when he looked on the past five years as a distant and fading dream!

As he paced the deck with a companion he learnt many strange things.  Odd bits of half-told stories, confidences respecting some girl, or some ambition—­and now and then a warning.

“You are so new and green to the East,” said Hoskins, his first friend, a police officer returning from short leave.  “You had better keep your eyes skinned!  Rangoon is not like India, but a roaring busy seaport, where every soul is on the make.  You will find various elements there, besides British and Burmese.  Tribes from Upper Burma, Tibetans, Hindoos, Malays, Chinese and, above all, Germans.  They do an enormous trade, and have many substantial firms and houses, and put through as much business as, or more than, we do ourselves.  No job is too small, no order too insignificant for their prompt attention.  They have agents all over the country, who pull strings in wolfram and the ruby mines, and have a finger in every mortal thing.  I’ll say this for them, they’re most awfully keen and industrious, and stick at nothing to earn the nimble rupee, underselling when they can, and grabbing contracts and trade secrets.  Some of these days they will mine us out of Burma!”