In the midst of my feast I suddenly felt a tap on the shoulder. Icy shivers ran down my back. The proprietor stood behind me and asked me for my papers. I naturally understood that he meant my identity book, and gave all up as lost. As I was unable to produce them, I was obliged to follow him, and saw to my dread that he went to the telephone. I was already casting furtive glances at the door and thinking how I could best make my escape, when the publican, who had been watching me through the glass door, returned and remarked: “If you have forgotten your papers, I can’t help you. By the by, what is your name? And where do you come from?” “I am George Mine, an American, ordinary seaman from the four-masted barque _Ohio_, lying upstream. I just came in here and have paid for my dinner, but of course haven’t got my papers about me.” He remarked: “This is a private, social-democratic club, and only members are allowed to eat here—you ought surely to know that—but if you become a member, you are welcome to come as often as you like.” Of course I agreed at once to his proposal, and paid three shillings’ entrance fee. A bit of glaring red ribbon was passed through my buttonhole, and thus I became the latest member of the social-democratic trades union of Tilbury! I returned to my table as if nothing had happened, gulped down my stout to fortify myself after the shock I had just had, but also soon left, for, to be quite frank, I had lost all my appetite and no longer cared for my food. I now went down to the riverside, threw myself on to the grass, and, feigning sleep, kept a lynx-eyed watch. Ship after ship went by, and my expectations rose every minute. At last, at 4 p.m., with proud bearing, the fast Dutch steamer dropped anchor and made fast to a buoy just in front of me. My happiness and my joy were indescribable when I read the ship’s name in white shining letters on the bow: MECKLENBURG. There could be no better omen for me, since I am a native of Mecklenburg-Schwerin. I crossed over to Gravesend on a ferry-boat, and from there unobtrusively watched the steamer. I adopted the careless demeanour and rolling gait of the typical Jack Tar, hands in my pockets, whistling a gay tune, but keeping eyes and mind keenly on the alert. This was my plan: to swim to the buoy during the night, climb the hawser, creep on deck and reach Holland as a stowaway. I soon found the basis for my operations. After I had ascertained that nobody was paying attention to me, I climbed over a pile of wood and rubbish, and concealed myself under some planks, where I discovered several bundles of hay. These afforded me a warm resting-place, of which I made use on that and the following nights.