"Correspondent!" I yelled in answer to his questions. "Newspaper
correspondent working on the war. I want to go to Hong-Kong in the
_Kut Sang_!"

"I am very sorry," he said, without explaining his sorrow.

"May I go in the _Kut Sang_?" I insisted, and he told me I could, and
after he had talked in a low tone with somebody in his office, said that
I couldn't, which was exasperating. I decided to go to the steamship
office and plead with the officials. Hanging up the receiver, I signalled
to the boy to call a carriage.

"You want to go in the _Kut Sang_, my dear sir?" came a purring voice at
my shoulder. I looked up, and the Rev. Luther Meeker smiled at me.

I growled something at him to the effect that I wondered if I was ever to
lose sight of him. He bowed again and grinned.

"Sorry that you object to me," he murmured, with lifted eyebrows. "But
we'll let all that pass. I might inform you that it is impossible to go
in the steamer _Kut Sang_. You will pardon me, I am sure, but I heard
what you said at the telephone, and I am willing to annoy you to save you
time and trouble. I repeat, there is absolutely no possibility of your
getting passage in the _Kut Sang_."

"How do you know?" I asked, still curt with him, but feeling a trifle
ashamed of myself for insulting him.

"Because they have just refused me, my dear sir--allow me--the Rev.