The package had been opened for private exhibition purposes in London, and as I am an awful washout (British slang) at doing up bundles, I had left the job to a chambermaid, who had discarded the Parisian wrapping paper and used some on which no firm name appeared. Well, Mr. Question Mark now laboriously untied the cord, took off the paper and the cover of the box, and exposed the toy to the public and official view. Instantly two British officers, whom we shall call General Bone and Major Thick, flitted up to the counter and peered at the damning evidence. “What is this gentleman’s name?” asked the general. He was told. “When did you make this thing?” he demanded. “I didn’t,” said I. “It was bought in a shop in Paris.” “What shop?” “You can’t expect a person to remember the name of a Parisian shop.” “Where is the firm’s name on the paper?” I explained that the original wrapper had been left in London. “What is your business?” demanded the major. “He’s a correspondent,” replied the inspector. There ensued the old familiar cross-examination and the request for credentials I didn’t have. The major asked the inspector whether I was carrying any papers. “These,” said the latter, and showed him the pile of blank copy sheets. The major dived for it. “It’s all blank paper,” said the inspector, and the major registered keen disappointment. Next to my suit-case lay a bag belonging to a gentleman named Trotter, and on it was a Japanese hotel label. The general glimpsed it and turned on me. “When were you in Japan?” he asked. I told him never. “That piece isn’t his,” said the inspector. “It belongs to a Mr. Trotter.” “His first name is Globe,” said I, but it was a wild pitch. The major and the general had a whispered consultation. Then the former said: “Well, I guess he’s all right. Let him go.” Some devil within me suggested that I say good-by to them in German, which I learned in our high school. I cast him out, and here I am, aboard ship, sitting still in the middle of the river. But I don’t like being indefinitely bottled in bond and I appeal to you, Mr. Captain-- _Take me somewhere west of Ireland where they know I’m not a spy, Where nobody gazes at me with a cold, suspicious eye-- To the good old U. S. A., Where a gent can go his way With no fear of being picked on forty thousand times a day._ VIII BACK IN OLD “O SAY”; I START ANSWERING QUESTIONS _Sunday, September 23. At Sea._ A card on the wall of my stateroom says: “Name of Steward--Ring Once. Name of Stewardess--Ring Twice.” If they’ll give us deck space, we can put on a three Ring circus.