In these times of shifting scenes, when the rich of to-day were the poor of to-morrow, or at least were under the necessity of feigning poverty, there were many people who wished to change their station in life, and that very quickly.  It was Wo Cheng’s business to help them make this change.  Many a Russian noble had sought this noisome shop to exchange his “purple and fine linen” for very humble garb, and just what he took from the pockets of one and put in the pockets of the other suit, Wo Cheng had a way of guessing, though he appeared not to see at all.

Johnny had known Wo Cheng for some time.  He had discovered his shop by accident when out scouting for billets for American soldiers.  He had later assisted in protecting the place from a raid by Japanese military police.

“You wanchee somsling?” The Oriental grinned, as Johnny seated himself cross-legged on a grass mat.

“Yep,” Johnny grinned in return, “wanchee change.”  He gripped the lapel of his blouse, as if he would remove it and exchange for another.

“You wanchee clange?” The Chinaman squinted at him with an air of incredulity.

Then a light of understanding seemed to over-spread his face.  “Ow!” he exclaimed, “no can do, Mellican officer, not any.  No can do.”

“Wo Cheng, you no savvy,” answered Johnny, glancing about at the tiers of costumes which hung on either side of the wall.

“Savvy!  Savvy!” exclaimed Wo Cheng, bounding away to return with the uniform of an American private.  “Officer, all same,” he exclaimed.  “No can do.”

“No good,” said Johnny, starting up.  “You no savvy.  Mebby you no wanchee savvy.  No wanchee uniform.  Wanchee clothes, fur, fur, plenty warm, you savvy?  Go north, north, cold, savvy?”

“Ow!” exclaimed the Chinaman, scratching his head.

“Wo Cheng!” said Johnny solemnly, “long time my see you.  Allatime, my see you.  Not speak American Major; not speak Japanese police.”

Wo Cheng shivered.

“Now,” said Johnny, “my come buy.”

“Ow!” grunted Wo Cheng, ducking from sight and reappearing quickly with a great coat of real seal, trimmed with sea otter, a trifle which had cost some noble of other days a king’s ransom.

“No wanchee,” Johnny shook his head.

“Ow!” Wo Cheng shook his head incredulously.  This was his rarest offering.  “You no got cumshaw, money?” he grinned.  “All wite, my say.”

“No wanchee my,” Johnny repeated.

The Chinaman took the garment away, and returned with a similar one, less pretentious.  This, too, was waved aside.

By this time Johnny had become impatient.  Time was passing.  A special train was to go north at four o’clock.  It was going for reindeer meat, rations for the regiment that was Johnny’s, or, at least, had been Johnny’s.  He could catch a ride on that train.  A five hundred mile lift on a three thousand mile jaunt was not to be missed just because this Chink was something of a blockhead.