Morrison and the British merchant Johnson walked out of the train station together, looking at the scarce pedestrians on the snow-covered street. Johnson took off his hat, scratched his thick, fluffy blond hair, and said to Morrison, "Mr. Morrison, we have to rely on you, the 'China Hand,' to ask for directions."

Morrison didn't answer. He looked around and saw a shop opposite the train station. Of the several wooden doors facing the street, each taller than a person, only one was left open. A thick straw curtain hung from the top of the door to the bottom, covering it tightly.

Walking across the street along the shovel-cleared road surface, Morrison lifted the door curtain and entered the shop. Sunlight entering from the high windows of the shop shone on the counter. A copper kettle for boiling water sat on a small stove behind the counter. The shelves displayed gunny sacks of peanuts, melon seeds, and fried salted beans unique to the Northeast—all common commodities at train stations.

There were no electric lights in the room, nor were any lamps lit; everything was shrouded in a dim, old atmosphere. Morrison was about to ask for directions when he saw several brand-new newspapers placed in a conspicuous position on the shelf. He asked, "Boss, what newspaper is this?"

The foreigner who came in could actually speak fluent Chinese. Although the boss was somewhat surprised, he answered readily, "This is *Siping Daily*."

"Are there newspapers from other places?" Morrison pressed.

The boss shook his head. "In the past, I would bring in some newspapers from other places every now and then, but no one reads those newspapers anymore. For the past two months, I've only sold *Siping Daily*."

Soon after, Johnson saw the shop's door curtain lift, and Morrison came out holding a newspaper. He went up to follow Morrison, but saw Morrison didn't set off; instead, he stood still in front of a street sign at the intersection. Only then did Johnson notice that Siping street corners actually had street signs. It was just that there were many Chinese characters written on them, which Johnson couldn't read.

Morrison took out the merchant's letter, looked at the street sign for a while, and went west along the cleared road.

At every intersection, Morrison stopped to look at the street sign for a while. Johnson was very worried that this was useless; even on the streets of London, one couldn't reach a destination relying solely on street signs. But out of politeness, Johnson held back the urge to question and followed Morrison through several intersections.

When several figures wearing British coats appeared before his eyes, Johnson couldn't quite believe it. But those British merchants immediately came up upon seeing Johnson and Morrison, asking, "Did you just arrive?"

Before his voice fell, a British merchant caught up from behind and shouted, "Johnson, is it really you?"

Soon, Morrison and Johnson were led into the place where British merchants lived together. Morrison looked left and right, not knowing how to evaluate it. This was a two-story Chinese building; the style reminded Morrison of the Eight Great Hutongs [red-light district in Beijing].

But there were no red lanterns here, nor round tables. There was a dining area composed of rectangular tables and small square tables, covered with tablecloths.

On the wooden shelves behind the British-style bar counter, rows of glass liquor bottles were displayed. A row of high stools was placed outside the bar. Although it was broad daylight, merchants were already sitting on the high stools, holding wine glasses and chatting while drinking.

There was a fireplace on each side of the building. The warmth released by the burning wood in the fireplaces made the inside and outside seem like two different worlds.

Long iron rods were nailed to the pillars, with British gas lamps hanging at the front ends. The bright light emitted by the gas lamps dispelled the gloom in the hall. Not only that, on the left side of the hall was a conversation area surrounded by sofas, and on the right side, a snooker table was actually set up.

Chinese architecture and British layout—these two styles combined to create the feeling of a British gentlemen's club.

Johnson had sat on hard seats on the train for a few days in winter. Seeing a sofa, he walked directly over and sat down. He immediately let out a sigh of admiration. "It's actually a real sofa!"

Morrison went over to try it. Just as Johnson said, the softness and elasticity were not far from British sofas. But Morrison still felt some differences. However, the journey was so exhausting that he didn't want to nitpick to find out exactly what the difference was.

At this time, a Chinese youth wearing a British waiter's uniform walked over with a tray and asked in fluent English, "Sir, would you like lemon water?"

Morrison nodded, and the waiter handed a glass to Morrison. Seeing the lemon slice in the glass, Morrison was finally sure that the description of Siping in the letter Johnson showed him was true. This place might have accommodations closest to the British style.

The taste of the lemon water made Morrison feel incredibly refreshed. Just as he took the second sip, a query in French came from the door. "Mr. Louis, President of the French Chamber of Commerce, sent me to greet the two newly arrived gentlemen."

Looking up, Morrison was even more surprised. The waiter standing at the door was dressed in French style; that French-style bow tie couldn't be wrong.

"We are here," Johnson stood up and responded.

The waiter walked up to Morrison and Johnson and handed over a business card. Morrison didn't understand French well. Johnson took the card, looked at it, and laughed. "Is the French Chamber of Commerce Hall actually across the street?"

The waiter replied, "If the two of you have time, Mr. Louis welcomes you to the hall."

Sending the waiter away, Morrison looked at this building again. He saw the interior arrangement was very meticulous, definitely not a rough imitation, and couldn't help but feel more curiosity. On the way here from the train station, Morrison didn't see any difference between Siping and other ordinary Chinese inland county towns. He Rui had been in Siping for less than half a year and created two such halls. Did Siping really have so many business opportunities to support these two halls?

This building had already been rented to British merchants. Morrison was quickly assigned a room on the second floor. The bed was very soft. Morrison lifted the mattress and saw a thick mat woven from a kind of brown dried grass he hadn't seen before. Leaning in to smell it, there was a faint plant scent, not annoying at all.

Putting the mattress back, lying on the soft yet elastic bed, Morrison wanted to think about some problems, but remembered the *Siping Daily* he bought at the train station, so he took it out. However, after reading only one headline, he felt his eyelids were incredibly heavy. Just as he put the newspaper on his chest, he had already fallen asleep.

Not knowing how long he slept, the sound of colliding balls and bursts of applause from outside woke Morrison from his dream. Rubbing his eyes, he walked to the second floor. Looking down from the railing, he saw six or seven people gathered around the snooker table.

At this time, only four or five balls remained on the table. A blond youth wearing a waistcoat and trousers squatted beside the table, carefully looking at the position of the balls. That thick, fluffy blond hair was familiar; it should be Johnson.

Morrison had heard that Johnson was a snooker expert. Seeing him constantly changing positions with a troubled look, he must have encountered a formidable opponent.

Looking at the distribution of balls on the table again, even Morrison, who only knew the rules, was somewhat surprised. According to snooker rules, once all red balls on the table are potted, the colored balls must be potted in order from lowest to highest score using the white ball: Yellow (2 points), Green (3), Brown (4), Blue (5), Pink (6), Black (7).

Now, the white ball was surrounded by several colored balls, while the lowest-scoring green ball was against the cushion at the other end of the table.

This was an obvious snooker [trap]. Johnson had to rely on several rebounds to get the white ball out of the encirclement without touching other colored balls and hit the green ball. If he couldn't do it, besides deducting points, the white ball had to be returned to its original position to start over. If the white ball touched other colored balls in the process, points would be deducted according to the colored ball's value.

Johnson met a master.

There were obviously several people dressed as Frenchmen in the crowd of onlookers, but they didn't hold cues. Expanding the search range a bit, he saw a black-haired youth wearing a waistcoat and trousers sitting on a chair nearby. A cue was placed beside the youth, who was taking a sip of lemon water. He should be that master.

Johnson made a decision at this time. He stood up and used the rest. The white ball broke out of the encirclement, bounced twice against the cushions, collided lightly with the green colored ball, and rolled toward the other side of the table again. It seemed to be heading back to a position unsuitable for striking.

Johnson didn't give up the game; he was still striving for victory. Even though Morrison didn't know much about snooker, he still felt Johnson played well. Several onlookers immediately applauded. It was evident that people who understood snooker, this European aristocratic sport, shared Morrison's view.

But the white ball didn't go that far. It stopped at the edge of the table on the other side and didn't bounce out. The black-haired youth stood up and looked for a moment, then hit a straight shot. The white ball crossed a long distance and accurately collided lightly with the green ball. The green ball was already against the cushion; under such a collision, it rolled slowly along the cushion and fell into the pocket.

A burst of sighs and applause erupted around them.

Having gained the advantage, the youth used a draw shot technique to hit the lower part of the ball, potting the brown, blue, and pink balls one by one while controlling the white ball to draw back to a good striking position. That clean striking action and the precise positioning of the white ball puzzled Morrison even more.

Black-haired Europeans were mostly in Southern Europe. Snooker wasn't popular in Southern Europe; it was an entertainment item for British, French, and Northern European aristocrats. This youth had a Chinese face, obviously not Southern European.

Suddenly, a strange thought popped up, making even Morrison feel his idea was truly baffling.

At this time, only a lone black ball remained on the table. With a clean strike, the black-haired youth sent the black ball straight into the middle pocket. Only the white ball continued to roll on the table.

Seeing the white ball's path obviously wouldn't lead to a pocket, Johnson shook his head helplessly, walked up to the black-haired youth, and extended his hand. "Governor He, you won beautifully."

Although Morrison had already guessed this Chinese youth might be He Rui, he didn't expect it to be true. He saw He Rui shake hands with Johnson and say warmly, "This was a wonderful match. I haven't met an excellent opponent like you for a long time. Playing against a master brought me great joy. Thank you, Mr. Johnson."

In the whole of Siping, there was only one Governor He. Morrison felt his previous impression of He Rui as a "scholar-type staff officer" was shaken by the scene before him. A scholar-type staff officer proficient in aristocratic entertainment—in the UK, this person would inevitably be a proper high-ranking noble.

"Governor He, want another game?" Johnson asked excitedly.

He Rui laughed. "My purpose today is to attend the thank-you cocktail party. I'll play with Mr. Johnson again next time."