Japanese shopping is an art to be acquired, apparently, and I have not patience for it. As a general rule I would rather give something approaching the price first asked by the vendor, than spend my time in haggling over it; but foreigners, who are expert, never do anything so extravagant, and, in the estimation of the shopkeeper, so absurd. If you like and wish to buy an article you don't ask its price, but that of several other things, working indifferently round to it. Perhaps the vendor says ten yen; you laugh as if you were very much amused, and say two yen. He laughs derisively, but quite good-naturedly, and you put it down, on which he says eight yen; you laugh again and walk about, on which he looks amused, and says seven yen; you say carelessly three yen, he looks sad and appears to calculate on his soroban; you move as if to go out, when most likely he claps his hands, looks jubilant, and says yuroshi, which means that you are to have it for three yen, which possibly is far more than it is worth to him. If the sellers were sour and glum, this process would be unbearable, but if you are courteous and smiling, they are as pleasant as people can be.

There are several shops which profess to sell tinned meats, condensed milk, and such like travelling requisites, and upon these have I spent much time with little success. I bought condensed milk with the “Eagle” brand. On opening it I found a substance like pale treacle, with a dash of valerian.