Rangoon, on a river navigable for nine hundred miles, is a large and important seaport and, as the wealth of one of the richest countries filters through its ports, naturally the approach is thronged with shipping.  Our incoming liner met or overtook cargo steamers, tank ships, battered tramps and heavily laden wind-jammers in the tow of straining tugs, not to mention steam-launches, barges and swarms of the local sampan, or small boat.

At the wharf where, amidst deafening yells and hoarse shoutings, the Blankshire crept to her berth, crowds of different races—­brown, black, yellow and white—­awaited the English mail.  Passengers were eagerly claimed by their friends and hurried away to motors and carriages; all was excitement and bustle.  Alas! ’board-ship friendships soon evaporate, and presently Shafto found himself standing on the aft-deck with his gun-case and cabin luggage, deserted and forgotten—­no, for here came Hoskins, the police officer, hot and breathless.

“I say, look here, old chap!” he panted, “I’m just off to catch my train to Tonghoo, but I’ve had a word with FitzGerald; it will be all right about the chummery; they can take you in on Monday.  I see Salter on board, one of the head assistants in Gregory’s; I expect he has come to meet you.  Well, I must run; so long!”

This good-natured fellow passenger was immediately succeeded by a cabin steward.  “Been looking for you everywhere, sir,” he said; “there’s a gentleman come aboard asking for you.”  As he concluded, a spare, middle-aged man wearing a large topee and a dust-coloured suit approached and said: 

“Mr. Shafto, I believe?” and offered a welcoming hand.

“Yes,” assented the new arrival.

“I’m Salter from Gregory’s.  Manders, the head assistant, asked me to meet you.  I’ll be glad to help you get your things ashore and take you to the Strand Hotel, where I have booked you a room.”

“That is most awfully good of you,” replied Shafto.  “On Monday I believe I am to get quarters in a chummery.”

“Ah, so you are settled, I see.  Now, if you will show me your baggage, I have a couple of coolies here with a cart and a taxi for ourselves.”

Mr. Salter proved to be remarkably prompt in his measures, and in less than ten minutes Shafto found himself following his flat narrow back down the steep gangway and setting his foot for the first time on the soil of Burma.  He halted for a moment to look about.  Here was a landmark in his life, a new sphere lay before him; the street was humming and alive with people, and he stared at the jostling, motley crowd of British, Burmese, Chinese, mostly a gaily-clad ever-changing multitude.  Among them were shaven priests in yellow robes.  Shans in flapping hats; right in front of him stood a stalwart Burman, wearing a white jacket, a pink silk handkerchief, twisted jauntily around his bullet head, and a yellow Lungi, girded to the knee, displayed a three-tailed cat tattooed on the back of each substantial calf.