something. I pulled up, partly to avoid killing them and partly to see
what it was all about.

It was an open-air theatre. They had built it on the ruins of an
_estaminet_, roofed it over with odds and ends of tin and tarpaulin,
and the play was on. There was the orchestra against the back-cloth,
rendering selections from popular Pekin revues on the drum, cymbal and
one-stringed fiddle. There were the actors apparelled in the gorgeous
costumes of old Cathay strutting mechanically through their parts, the
female impersonators squeaking in shrill falsetto and putting in a lot
of subtle fan-work. And there was the ubiquitous property-man drifting
in and out among the performers, setting his fantastic house in order.
We were actually within a mile of the Vimy Ridge, but we might have
been away on the sunny side of Suez, deep within the mysterious heart
of Canton City.

"Good as a three-ring circus, ain't it?" said an English voice at my
side; "most of their plays run on for nine months or so, but this
particular show only lasts six weeks, the merest curtain-raiser."

I turned towards the speaker and looked full upon the beak nose, cleft
cheek and bristling red moustache of an old friend. "Good Lord, The
Beachcomber!" I breathed. He started, peered at me and growled,
"Captain Dawnay-Devenish, if it's all the same to you, Mister blooming
Lieutenant."

* * * * *

In the year 1907 John Fanshawe Dawnay-Devenish arrived in a certain
Far Eastern port, deck passenger aboard a Dutch tramp out of Batavia.