I rode to the shore, into the village of Kuelian-Ching.  There were no lounging men smoking long pipes and chattering.  The previous day the Russians had been there, a bloody battle had been fought, and to-day the Japanese were there—­but what was that to talk about?  Everybody was busy.  Men were offering eggs and chickens and fruit for sale upon the street, and bread, as I live, bread in small round loaves or buns.  I rode on into the country.  Everywhere a toiling population was in evidence.  The houses and walls were strong and substantial.  Stone and brick replaced the mud walls of the Korean dwellings.  Twilight fell and deepened, and still the ploughs went up and down the fields, the sowers following after.  Trains of wheelbarrows, heavily loaded, squeaked by, and Pekin carts, drawn by from four to six cows, horses, mules, ponies, or jackasses—­cows even with their newborn calves tottering along on puny legs outside the traces.  Everybody worked.  Everything worked.  I saw a man mending the road.  I was in China.

I came to the city of Antung, and lodged with a merchant.  He was a grain merchant.  Corn he had, hundreds of bushels, stored in great bins of stout matting; peas and beans in sacks, and in the back yard his millstones went round and round, grinding out meal.  Also, in his back yard, were buildings containing vats sunk into the ground, and here the tanners were at work making leather.  I bought a measure of corn from mine host for my horses, and he overcharged me thirty cents.  I was in China.  Antung was jammed with Japanese troops.  It was the thick of war.  But it did not matter.  The work of Antung went on just the same.  The shops were wide open; the streets were lined with pedlars.  One could buy anything; get anything made.  I dined at a Chinese restaurant, cleansed myself at a public bath in a private tub with a small boy to assist in the scrubbing.  I bought condensed milk, bitter, canned vegetables, bread, and cake.  I repeat it, cake—­good cake.  I bought knives, forks, and spoons, granite-ware dishes and mugs.  There were horseshoes and horseshoers.  A worker in iron realized for me new designs of mine for my tent poles.  My shoes were sent out to be repaired.  A barber shampooed my hair.  A servant returned with corn-beef in tins, a bottle of port, another of cognac, and beer, blessed beer, to wash out from my throat the dust of an army.  It was the land of Canaan.  I was in China.

The Korean is the perfect type of inefficiency—­of utter worthlessness.  The Chinese is the perfect type of industry.  For sheer work no worker in the world can compare with him.  Work is the breath of his nostrils.  It is his solution of existence.  It is to him what wandering and fighting in far lands and spiritual adventure have been to other peoples.  Liberty to him epitomizes itself in access to the means of toil.  To till the soil and labour interminably with rude implements and utensils is all he asks of life and of the powers that be.  Work is what he desires above all things, and he will work at anything for anybody.