of Christian endeavour in the Far East than all the idols in the Chinese
Empire.

"There's nawthin' in England for me, Jackie. My gal's a bloomin'
foreigner by this time and she'll sell the bleedin' farm, of course.
She's an h'American, God bless 'er 'eart. I daresay if I'd go to 'er and
say I'd like my farm back again she'd want to fork hover, but 'er bloody
'usband wouldn't be for that sort of hextravagance. 'E'd boot me off the
hisland."

"The United States isn't an island, Tazzy," explained Mr. Wyckholme,
gulping his brandy and soda.

Mr. Wyckholme was the second son of Sir Somebody-or-other and had
married the vicar's daughter. This put him into such bad odour with his
family that he hurried off to the dogs--and a goodly sized menagerie
besides, if the records of the inebriate's asylum are to be credited.
His wife, after enduring him for sixteen years, secured a divorce. It
may not have been intended as an insult to the scapegoat, but no sooner
had she freed herself from him than his father, Sir Somebody-or-other,
took her and her young daughter into the ancestral halls and gave them a
much-needed abiding-place. This left poor Mr. Jack quite completely out
in the world--and he proceeded to make the best and the worst of it
while he had the strength and ambition. Accepting the world as his home,
he ventured forth to visit every nook and cranny of it. In course of
time he came upon his old-time neighbour and boyhood friend, Taswell
Skaggs, in the city of Shanghai. Neither of them had seen the British
Isles in two years or more.

"'Ow do you know?" demanded Taswell.