He had not been gone long before still another called on me, a middle-aged Korean gentleman, attended by a staff of officials.  Here was a man of rank, and I soon learned that he was the Commander-in-Chief for the entire district.  I was in somewhat of a predicament.  I had used up all my food, and had not so much as a cigar or a glass of whiskey left to offer him.  One or two flickering candles in the covered courtyard of the inn lit up his care-worn face.  I apologized for the rough surroundings in which I received him, but he immediately brushed my apologies aside.  He complained bitterly of the conduct of his subordinate, who had risked an engagement that morning when he had orders not to.  The commander, it appeared, had been called back home for a day on some family affairs, and hurried back to the front as soon as he knew of the trouble.  He had come to me for a purpose.  “Our men want weapons,” he said.  “They are as brave as can be, but you know what their guns are like, and we have very little ammunition.  We cannot buy, but you can go to and fro freely as you want.  Now, you act as our agent.  Buy guns for us and bring them to us.  Ask what money you like, it does not matter.  Five thousand dollars, ten thousand dollars, they are yours if you will have them.  Only bring us guns!”

I had, of course, to tell him that I could not do anything of the kind.  When he further asked me questions about the positions of the Japanese I was forced to give evasive answers.  To my mind, the publicist who visits fighting forces in search of information, as I was doing, is in honour bound not to communicate what he learns to the other side.  I could no more tell the rebel leader of the exposed Japanese outposts I knew, and against which I could have sent his troops with the certainty of success, than I could on return tell the Japanese the strength of his forces.

All that night the rebels dribbled in.  Several wounded men who had escaped from the fight the previous day were borne along by their comrades, and early on the following morning some soldiers came and asked me to do what I could to heal them.  I went out and examined the men.  One had no less than five bullet-holes in him and yet seemed remarkably cheerful.  Two others had single shots of a rather more dangerous nature.  I am no surgeon, and it was manifestly impossible for me to jab into their wounds with my hunting-knife in the hope of extracting the bullets.  I found, however, some corrosive sublimate tabloids in my leather medicine case.  These I dissolved, and bathed the wounds with the mixture to stop suppuration.  I had some Listerine, and I washed their rags in it.  I bound the clean rags on the wounds, bade the men lie still and eat little, and left them.