We dawdled so long in the quaint and charming country of Japan that it was full summer when we left. As the inverted fan of Fujiyama faded gradually into nothingness against the illimitable spaces of the sky, we said again and again sayonara, which is the musical Japanese word meaning good-bye, for we felt we were taking leave of an old friend. Japan is on the other side of the world from England; shall we ever get there again?

Then came the voyage across the Pacific and the landing at Victoria, the chief town on the great island of Vancouver, which lies off the west coast of Canada. It is always a little confusing to people who have not visited this part, because there are two Vancouvers: one the great island which blocks the western coast of Canada, and the other the town lying on the eastern side of the narrow straits, on the mainland.

Well, here we are in Victoria, and the astonishing homeliness of it gives us both a warm feeling of delight. It seems as if we really had got almost in touch with our own country again. As we wandered through the town to-day we saw in the outskirts red-brick creeper-covered houses that might have been in an English market town. In spite of all its trams and docks and general go-aheadness Victoria is old world. We visited a place called Esquimault, by tram-car, and saw there British ships of war and many other kinds of craft. Now we are back in the hotel, and in our cosy bedroom there is little to remind us we have still a continent and ocean between us and our beloved little island.

What are you doing? Putting your boots out to be cleaned? Well, that is one thing you won't get done here, it is not the custom; you will have to go down to the basement and have them cleaned on your feet, and tip the man who does them then and there. I'll come too, because we have to make a very early start to-morrow. I wish we hadn't, for some things. There is capital shooting and fishing here, though a great deal of the island, which, by the way, is more than twice the size of Wales, is covered with impenetrable forests. It is difficult to get about at all in the interior, but we could have gone around by the coast and explored the inlets, and with luck we might have seen something of the moose and the bear, to say nothing of wild fowl and salmon and trout, but we can't manage it this time. A friend of mine, who is in charge of a salmon-cannery on the coast of British Columbia, is going to put us up for a day or two, and he has arranged that we shall cross over on the cannery steamer, the Transfer, which leaves so early that we'll have to be up at half-past four in the morning.

Ugh, I'm sleepy! But I see the sun is already up and shining in a cloudless sky. It is a trifle cold when we get out at first in the morning, but as we walk briskly down to the steamer we feel warmed up. The wharf shows a busy scene; there are numbers of blue-clad Chinamen rushing backwards and forwards loading boxes on to our little steamer, which floats by the wharf, and what a comic steamer she is! She is like nothing so much as a great fan-tail pigeon sitting on the water! That is because her immense paddle-wheel is tucked away at the back. There is a very good reason for this too! The steamer gives an agonised scream from her siren, the Chinamen on board chatter and gesticulate frantically to their comrades left behind, there is a terrific commotion, and for the moment no one could help believing that something has gone wrong; but no, this is only the way the Celestials say good-bye, for when we are fairly off all the noise stops and a great calm falls on board.

The view from the deck is glorious; in this brilliant light we can see the mountains rearing up behind the town. While we are admiring them a voice says, "One piecy eat breakfast, Master," and turning we see a Chinaman in spotless white bowing before us. We gladly accept and go below, where we find other Chinamen gliding about in felt slippers serving hot baked buckwheat cakes and maple syrup; the cakes are beautifully flaky and about the size of a saucer; we soon dispose of them and some decent coffee too, and return to the deck quickly not to miss anything.

It seems no time before we are gliding along close to the land on the other side, startling myriads of water-fowl, who fly up in front of us in an endless cloud, or dive just as we get near enough to see them well. Then a tall white lighthouse heaves into sight and we round a corner into that famous salmon river, the Fraser. There are red houses peeping out between the trees, and boats begin to pop up here and there, but we don't seem to be getting on very fast, for we are zigzagging this way and that across the water, almost more crookedly than we did on the Nile or Irrawaddy to avoid sandbanks.

"See the nets?" asks one of the ship's officers, coming to a halt beside us and pointing to a line of corks on the surface of the water; "we've got to keep clear of them, and that's no job for a sleepy-head, I can tell you." He goes on to explain that the nets are sixty feet long and weighted with lead on the low side in the usual fashion. At this time of year the salmon are all trying to get up the river. Salmon have queer ways. They are born far up, in the head waters of the Fraser, or any other great river, and come down as quite little fellows to the sea, where they live a free bachelor life, enjoying themselves in the open for three years; but at the end of that time an irresistible desire to return to the fresh water seizes them, and in thousands and thousands they press up the wide mouth of the river, tumbling over each other in their eagerness to get there; this is the time they are caught. The nets are made with wide meshes, and the fish in their struggle to get forward run their blunt heads through, but when they try to withdraw them they are held by the gills and remain fixed until they are hauled out to meet their fate. But from six in the morning on Saturdays till six in the evening on Sundays the law forbids netting, so a certain number always escape and get up the river to lay their eggs, after which they return to the sea and leave their families to hatch out; but their life-work is finished, and they either die on the way or soon afterwards. All this the officer tells us as we meander across the smooth water.

We stop once or twice where the flag calls, just as we did on the Irrawaddy, to take up or put down some freight, and then we sight Lulu Island, where we are to stay as the guests of Mr. Clay for a day or two. Hullo! there he is! That tall fellow in a flannel shirt and blue trousers. Oh no, it isn't—it's another Englishman; but among the multitude of Chinese one Englishman looks very like another! This man greets us as we get off at the pier, and says that Mr. Clay is expecting us, and he pilots us into a great shed at the end of the pier. My word, what a sight! There are thousands and thousands of salmon lying on every square foot of floor, and not only covering it, but covering it knee-deep, as they are piled one on the other. There are Chinamen wading about among them, and every minute fresh boats arrive at the wharf with their cargoes, and the men in them throw up the fish to the other men on the wharf. The salmon we see here, our new acquaintance tells us, are called "sock-eye," and weigh about ten pounds each. The great rush comes every fourth year, one of which was 1913, when about thirteen million fish were caught in the season. The men in the boats are Japs; we feel quite friendly toward them. Mixed with them are some others with rather Eastern faces too, but quite different from anything we have seen yet. Notice their greasy straight hair, their flat, broad, good-humoured faces and little stocky figures; what race do you think they are? Esquimaux? That is not a bad shot; they are very like the pictures one sees of Esquimaux, but these fellows are Siwash Indians, who live along the coast hereabouts. Here is Mr. Clay, who has been watching the reckoning of the caught fish. He is dressed exactly like the man who met us, and a useful working dress it is too. He greets us with the greatest hospitality and says he'll take us right up to his house for breakfast first, as we must be starved, and we can see all we want to afterwards. When we are clear of the sheds we see a long, low, wooden building standing by itself; to reach it we have to pass over several wooden platforms raised on legs. These, Mr. Clay explains, are necessary, because in winter the whole island is pretty well under water. As we cross the verandah we are warmly welcomed by Mrs. Clay, and taken into a charming wooden room in the middle of the house, on to which all the other rooms open. Here is laid out a splendid home breakfast of bacon and eggs and porridge, and after a wash it doesn't take us very long to fall to! How long is it since we had bacon and eggs for breakfast? It seems to me to be so far back I can't remember! We are both rather thin after living on Jap diet so long, and are quite ready to wind up with more buckwheat cakes when we have finished the other things. All the servants are Chinamen you notice, and very well they wait too.

While we eat, Mr. Clay tells us much about his kingdom. He and his wife have another house which is in New Westminster, not far off up the river, and they go there for the winter, only staying here in the summer when the work is in full swing. He is the manager of only one cannery here, and there are several others all working amicably together.

Then we stroll out, feeling blissfully satisfied, a condition we have long been strangers to, and as we smoke Mr. Clay points out the other houses round. There is the house for the white men who assist him, the houses for the Japs, and the Chinese house. At the back of his own premises are sheds where he keeps a couple of horses and some cows for his own use. Then there is the Stores, a big building full of tinned meats, sacks of rice, tobacco and tea, and all sorts of underclothing, as well as the other little things men are likely to want.

Afterwards we stroll through the Chinamen's house. It is a queer-looking place, with bunks ranged along the walls and a huge wooden table down the middle, where just now numbers of complacent Chinamen are sitting down to a midday meal of rice with cooked fish. As we pass along we see that each man keeps his little treasures beside his bunk, for, though so impassive, the Chinaman is a home-loving creature; there are little images of carved ivory and other small treasures. Do you see that white rat with pink eyes restlessly doing sentry-go in his cage?

Behind the house, and some distance off, is the Indian village, where we see great barn-like buildings; here the Siwash Indians live, and several of their flat-faced, broad-nosed children are tumbling about and playing; as we come up one sturdy youngster raises a heavy stick and flings it with all his force at a wretched little seal tied up by a flapper. Mr. Clay goes quickly forward and catches hold of the little Indian boy, and the women all rush out and talk at a tremendous rate; it ends in the manager giving a trifle for the seal and making a signal to his men, who take up the poor little beast and carry it off to put an end to it mercifully. He does not put it back in the water, because seals do much mischief in breaking the nets. The Indian children don't mean to be cruel, but they have no imagination.

Then we go on a voyage of inspection all round the place. We saw the fish when they were first landed from the nets, and the next proceeding is when they are slit open by the Indian women, who cut off their heads and tails and throw them into vats of salt and water. After this they are fished out and chopped into round pieces to fit the tins. This is done by Chinamen, who get so clever at it that they can judge exactly how much to put into each tin to make just one pound weight; the tins are weighed as they pass on, and all those not right are sent back to be done again. The tins which pass the test roll down an inclined shute. Look at them, one after the other, exactly as if they were alive! As they run they roll in soldering stuff, so that their lids are sealed on the way. But they have many other processes to go through before they can be shipped off. Immense care is taken to get all the air out of the tin, because if any were left in the fish would go bad. They are tried and tested time after time at every stage. The salmon is cooked when already in the tin, and the heating is so severe that all the bone becomes soft too. You know this well in tinned salmon, don't you? You know, too, the look of the tins, with their gaudy-coloured labels, as they are sold in shops in England? These labels are stuck on after they leave the cannery, which deals with the insides, not the outsides, of the tins. There is a sarcastic saying at the canneries, "Eat what you can and can what you cannot," but this is not fair, for the very greatest trouble is taken to ensure the fish being quite good. When all is ready, sailing ships come and are loaded up and carry off the season's catch to all parts of the world. And this is going on all along the coast at many and many a cannery, day after day, week after week, during the fishing season.

There is so much to see that when we leave the last shed the day is almost gone. At that moment two Chinamen pass us carrying a pig suspended from a pole by its four feet tied together. The poor little beast is going to be killed, for the Chinese are very fond of pork.

When we sit on the verandah after dinner, trying vainly to keep off the mosquitoes by smoking strong tobacco, we are joined by one of the assistant managers, a man named Jones, who has fiery red hair and, I should judge, a peppery temper. He is very angry about something, and several times Mr. Clay tries to argue with him and calm him down; it seems that he has had a row with a Chinaman. This morning he spoke sharply to the man, who went stolidly on with his work without seeming to notice it, but later on, meeting Mr. Jones outside, the Chinaman drew the knife which they all carry in their belts, and muttered something threatening to his superior. This evening Mr. Jones keeps saying again and again in an excited way, "Leave him to me, I'll settle his hash," and Mr. Clay repeatedly tells him that he can report the man, who can be fined, but that it would be rash to tackle anything of that sort single-handed, as the Chinamen all stand together and are like an enraged swarm of hornets if any one of their number is touched.

However, next day we hear nothing more and spend a lazy morning wandering about a little and sitting on the verandah until Mr. Clay turns up about midday and says, "Come and see all the men leaving work for dinner; you missed that yesterday, and it is quite a sight."

So we go across with him to the big shed. Just as we reach it we hear a furious noise like the buzz of hornets, and coming quickly round a corner we run into an angry and excited crowd of Chinamen rushing this way and that, and stabbing at random in the air with their knives.

"That fool!" ejaculates Clay. "He's done something!" and before we realise what he intends to do, he is right in among the mob of Chinamen, knives and all, without a sign of fear. You and I are too much interested to go away, but we keep well on the outskirts of the crowd. The roar redoubles as Clay is seen, but after a while it dies away a little, and then a small party emerge from among the rest, carrying one of their number, unconscious, between them, and as they pass on down to the house where they live, the others hurry after them, still chattering and brandishing their knives.

Clay is much upset. "That fool!" he says again, and there is a deep fold of anxiety on his forehead. "This morning he took down with him to the sheds a piece of lead-piping, and stood by the door there, and as the men came out one by one, he marked the one who threatened him yesterday and dropped him with a stunning blow on the back of the neck. I don't think he's killed the fellow. Luckily it takes a lot to kill a Chinaman, but we'll have no end of a shindy over this; they'll lose days of work, and the worst is, Jones has disappeared—no one knows where he is."

All the afternoon the place is in a blaze of excitement, and, as Mr. Clay foresaw, no work is done. Every now and then we can see, from where we are sitting on the verandah, a band of Chinamen burst out of their house flourishing knives and shouting and rushing about and then quieting down and slinking back. If Jones shows himself now his life won't be worth an instant's purchase! I try to get out of Clay what he means to do, but he won't tell me, yet I am sure, from something he let fall, that he has discovered the whereabouts of his junior, and I should not be surprised if the man was in this house.

When we turn in at last to our beds nothing more has happened, and Jones has not appeared. I have been asleep for a little while when I hear a subdued whispering on the verandah outside my window, and jumping up I put my head out. There stands Clay in his pyjamas with a man I recognise as the night-watchman, a European. Clay sees me and waves his hand, and as the watchman disappears he comes over to me. "Strang has just been up to tell me that the Chinamen have carried the poor beggar out of the house and laid him on the bank of the river," he says in a low voice; "that means to say they think he's dying, and they wouldn't have him in their house, or his spirit would settle down there. That's a good job for us, or by the morning he'll be spirited away! There's the little tug ready, and it will soon run him up to New Westminster hospital. I'm just going down to see the poor chap aboard."

"What about Jones? Aren't you going to send him off too?" I asked.

"No fear! He'll have to swallow his gruel. We can't spare him. Where would I get another man from at this time of the season? Besides, that would look as if he were afraid of them. We've lost hours of precious time with his foolery already," he adds savagely, and I can guess the headstrong Jones has "caught it" from his chief!

Next morning still no Jones, and all seems as usual; work is resumed, the Chinamen ask no questions as to their wounded comrade, and peace reigns. About eleven o'clock Clay comes up from the works hurriedly and gives a whistle, and from one of the bedroom doors emerges Jones, looking rather like a schoolboy who has been in disgrace and means to carry it off with swagger.

When we get out on the verandah we find the rest of the white men belonging to the place all gathered together with revolvers in their hands, and with one consent they move off toward the big shed. For the life of me I can't keep out of it, and it would be rather hard to stop your going. I wouldn't miss seeing Jones reintroduced to his friends the Chinamen for anything. Come on, but let us keep behind where we shan't be noticed, or Mr. Clay would send us back at once.

There is a busy hum surging out of the factory as we approach, and the noise of it rings out on the still air; then, as the white men appear in a little knot in the doorway, there is a dead pause, a silence so sudden and dramatic that it seems as if one's heart must stop beating. The half-dozen white men stroll up the gangway carelessly, but you note they all keep together, until Jones, who doubtless has got his orders, separates himself from the others and walks briskly ahead. His face is very white as he bends over a Chinaman and glances at his work in as natural a manner as he can command, then he looks sharply at another and tells him to go ahead and not waste time. Hands grow busy, the noise recommences, and in a few minutes the buzz rises again to concert pitch. The critical moment has been safely passed. We follow the others into the building and walk the whole length of it and back, and by the time we get to the doorway again no one could tell that anything unusual had happened.

However, I shouldn't care to be Mr. Jones on Lulu Island, and if I were he I should apply for a job elsewhere at the end of the season!