The next day Michael Farbman of the _Chicago Tribune_, with G. G. Desmond of the _London Daily News_, dropped in from somewhere and told me there would be a chance that Sunday night of going to Copenhagen on a British destroyer. Since Desmond was a British subject we chose him to take up the matter with the British mission. His efforts were successful, and we left the hotel under cover of darkness and, hugging the walls of the buildings, we finally reached the British mission. In company with several English officers we started through the dark streets at seven-thirty in the evening with shells falling everywhere, and walked three miles to the bend of the Dvina, out of range of the firing. Twice we were shot at by Lettish outposts who had not been informed that we were supposed to pass. Luckily for us they proved to be bad shots, and the shouts of “English, English” from the officers stopped the firing. At nine in the evening we reached the river and were bundled into two small boats, pulled by a slow-going gasoline launch. The Letts were on one side of the river; the Germans on the other, and both sides impartially fired at us with their rifles, but although they hit each boat once they did not touch us. I shall never forget the English officers, crouching in the bottoms of the boats—beside me—shouting “English, English” at the top of their voices as we proceeded, and persisting in their shouting of the word that had hitherto proven a magic one, in spite of the fact that it could not possibly be heard by either side, and forgetting, apparently, that if it were heard by the Germans it might not deter them. After two and one-half hours of this, during which we traversed eight miles, we reached the gulf and the comparative safety of the British cruiser _Abdiel_. At last my troubles were over.