My pillow was Chinese, and the hardest part of the bed; my portmanteau was beside me and served as a desk; a Chinese candle, more wick than wax, stuck into a turnip, gave me light.
This, our first day's journey, brought us to within sound of the worst rapid on the river, the Hsintan, and the roar of the cataract hummed in our ears all night.
Early in the morning we were at the foot of the rapid under the bank on the opposite side of the river from the town of Hsintan.

It was an exciting scene.

A swirling torrent with a roar like thunder was frothing down the cataract.

Above, barriers of rocks athwart the stream stretched like a weir across the river, damming the deep still water behind it.
The shore was strewn with boulders.

Groups of trackers were on the bank squatting on the rocks to see the foreign devil and his cockleshell.
Other Chinese were standing where the side-stream is split by the boulders into narrow races, catching fish with great dexterity, dipping them out of the water with scoop-nets.
We rested in some smooth water under shelter and put out our towline; three of my boys jumped ashore and laid hold of it; another with his bamboo boat-hook stood on the bow; the laoban was at the tiller; and I was cooped up useless in the well under the awning.