"Close the door!" commanded Trenchard, impatiently. Blue haze had settled beyond the black silhouettes of trees, graduating to the deep violet that began the night sky. He was not, it seemed, the proper stipendiary at all, and there had been some demur to his jurisdiction that had ruffled him. He may not be able to eat tin-cans, but he tries to. He took his social pleasures once a year in Hong-Kong, after Easter. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy.
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