Alcohol was forbidden; but even in England rules seemed made only to be broken. One of our warders belonged to a masonic lodge, members of which were widely distributed over England and America. My colleague, the locksmith, happened to be Master. When the soldier saw the Freemasons’ sign in my friend’s buttonhole, their pact was sealed. A small canteen flourished in the basement of our prison, and one after another we were led down by the kindly brother, and returned thence fortified, with pockets bulging with beer bottles. The joke was that our sentries, who stood on guard before our door, allowed us to go away quietly, and even begged us to bring them up a few bottles of beer. At 9 p.m. our sentries had become so chummy that we practised rifle exercises together, and at 11 p.m. one sentry dropped his rifle altogether and tumbled backwards, with the coal-box, on which he had been sitting, atop of him. If I had possessed the experience which was mine after five months’ captivity, I should have escaped even then. In this prison, as well as in all other camps where we foregathered with the English Tommies, their first request, after we had become better acquainted, was for a little note with our address and possibly the address of friends in Germany, and an attestation that the English soldier So-and-so had treated us well. These notes were treasured by them as relics, to be produced at the Front, or in case of capture by the Germans. We were given tiny camp palliasses, which were so short that our legs projected from the calves downwards, and so narrow that it would have taken an ingenious circus performer to balance his back on it. We also had two blankets each. We slept like logs, though, it is true, the next morning found us all on the floor alongside the mattresses. On the following morning—it was Sunday—we received the visit of an Army officer of high rank. He inquired after our wishes. I pointed out repeatedly that I was an officer, and had the right to be treated as a prisoner of war. He was most charming, and promised me many things when we should arrive at our destination—but kept none of them. At last, on the Monday, we were allowed to leave our prison. As usual, closely guarded by our escort, we were marched to the harbour, where we boarded a small steamer, and after an hour’s journey reached a huge ship which was used as a prisoners’ camp. After a long palaver we were obliged to put out to sea again, for the Commandant declared that he had no information about us, and no room either. Though this comedy was re-enacted on the next steamer, the Cunard liner _Andania_, the fluency of our Major’s vituperations probably surpassed that of the Camp Commandant’s; anyway, we went on board after half an hour’s delay. A fat, bumptious, English Lieutenant, who filled the post of Camp Commandant and interpreter on this boat, received us.