All up the main road that leads through Taitungchen, Japanese, British and Indian troops were moving, some in ranks, others in straggling parties carrying kit. General Barnardiston and his staff were on ahead somewhere, a "Tommy" said. Taitungchen itself was a bit knocked about—
Chinese were beginning to emerge like rats out of corners, optimistically speculating as to what could be done with half a roof and two bits of wall. "All finished," chimed a party cheerily as I stopped to talk to them. Beyond Taitungchen there were few signs of bombardment: the road was neat, clean, suburbanly in order. A Red Cross motor met one; another puffed up from be hit here and there @ ricsha coolie looked up and down for a fare. General Barnardiston was found at length in the artillery store, behind the barracks. "You'll find all our fellows over there," he pointed. "Go and get something to eat." "Over there" proved to be a big, empty godown, where on long tables stood tins of butter, jam and milk mixed up with knives, forks, cups and loaves of bread—a gorgeous disarray to a hungry man. Officers stood and sat in groups, digging into this tin and that, of them tired to death, mud-stained, smeared, discussing ways and means of communicating in*fanter with Tientsin and Weihaiwei; laughing over the Intest yarn ab feet on the stone o floor, and blowing on finger tips sticky with butter and jam.
The Gladness of the Women.
Riding back towards evening to Changtsun one saw a group of German women—some three or four, caught the glow of their gladdened faces and carried it with one into darkening valleys where hundreds of prisoners moved like shadows out of Tsingtao,
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.