To reach the Sha-mien—and particularly the Hotel Victoria—one crossed a narrow canal, always choked with rocking sampans over and about which swarmed yellow men and women and children in varied shades of faded blue cotton. “Oh, yes,” the stranger remarked good-humouredly. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. It presented a cleanshaven face with a large Corinthian nose, hair tremendously waving off the forehead and more chin and neck than is good for a man. ‘I do not wish to be like him, but it is entirely reasonable that it should be so.
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