He was a
grain merchant. Corn he had, hundreds of bushels, stored in great
bins of stout matting; peas and beans in sacks, and in the back yard
his millstones went round and round, grinding out meal. Also, in his
back yard, were buildings containing vats sunk into the ground, and
here the tanners were at work making leather. I bought a measure of
corn from mine host for my horses, and he overcharged me thirty
cents. I was in China. Antung was jammed with Japanese troops. It
was the thick of war. But it did not matter. The work of Antung
went on just the same. The shops were wide open; the streets were
lined with pedlars. One could buy anything; get anything made. I
dined at a Chinese restaurant, cleansed myself at a public bath in a
private tub with a small boy to assist in the scrubbing. I bought
condensed milk, bitter, canned vegetables, bread, and cake. I repeat
it, cake--good cake. I bought knives, forks, and spoons, granite-
ware dishes and mugs. There were horseshoes and horseshoers.
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