hoped they would lose, and praised the Russians as brave and pious. When
I expressed satisfaction at his views in order to prove my character as a
Russian agent, we might have been mistaken by an observer for a couple of
old friends.

He wearied me, however, with his chatter and efforts to make himself
agreeable, and after the meal I escaped from him on the plea of business
which must be attended to before the steamer sailed.

Leaving the walled city, I crossed the Bridge of Spain to the Escolta and
took a stroll in Calle Rosario, where the Chinese merchants keep
themselves in grateful shade with miles of awning. After an hour of
sight-seeing, I found myself in a square near the San Miguel Bridge.

There was a crowd gathered before a building, which I remember on account
of the picture of a frigate painted upon the stucco wall and the great
red letters spelling out:

THE FLAGSHIP BAR

There had evidently been a fight; and coolies and natives, and Europeans
in white, clustered at the door. I joined the knot of people and pressed
forward to see what was holding their attention, and saw the body of a
big, foreign-looking man, half inside the door and half on the pavement,
with his head outside.

His mouth was open, and from his upper lips drooped long, black
moustaches, looking all the blacker for the ghastly pallor of his cheeks.
He had been stabbed in the back, and the spectators in the front of the
group edged away to avoid the growing pool of blood on the sidewalk.