There is always a thrill of expectation for the genuine traveller on crossing the frontier into an unknown country, which even the sight of the custom-house fails to dispel. In the case of Manchuria we were fortunate enough to escape the custom-house altogether, as having no registered luggage we only received a perfunctory visit from the politest of officials in our railway carriage at about 11 P.M. While all the rest of the travellers had to turn out and spend an hour or more in an offensive-smelling office, we comfortably went to bed and awoke next morning to find a glorious, dazzling sun shining on the snowy plain between Manchuria (town) and our terminus, Kharbin. The railway station is…
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