And, steaming in, I thought I might as well do it in style. Here we were, a victorious battle-ship entering a foreign port, and so I hoisted our international code--spelling it out that we were the _Cape Horn_ of the Terra del Fuegan navy, and asking permission to anchor. The captain of the American battle-ship was standing on his bridge as we steamed down the line, with a man in our chains heaving the lead, my mate on the fore-bridge and myself on the after-bridge, a quartermaster to the wheel, and the second mate spying, busy as could be, through a long glass; and not alone the captain, but the nine hundred and odd officers and men of the American battle-ship roared in review of us. The other ships in port didn't know what to make of it no way. We came around and dropped our young anchor, splash! and saluted the port--twenty-one guns from our bomb-lance things. Our lieutenant of the hunting party seemed to be officer of the deck on the real battle-ship. "How'd you come out?" he hails. "We met the enemy and their loot is ours," I answers. "Captain Fenton presents his compliments and would like to have you come aboard," he hails. And I went aboard, sitting in the stern-sheets of my second boat, with the red, green, and purple flag trailing astern and eight men to the oars. And they gave me two bosun's pipes with four side-boys and two long ruffles from the drums as I came over the side, and in the captain's cabin I told him what the officers of the hunting party couldn't tell him already. And he thought it the best story he'd heard in a long time. I thought it was a pretty good story myself, and told it again to Mr. Amundsen on the same long pier where I had first met him with Hilda, and he said the blood of the old vikings must be in my veins, and uncorked four solid hours of the old sagas, finishing up in the big front room with fiat bread and goats' cheese and dried ptarmigan chips and Trondhjem beer. By and by I got a chance to tell it to Hilda--that and a little more while I was telling it. The band, a fine band, too, was playing their Sunday-night concert out in the plaza. I remember how the music made pictures in my brain while I talked, though I never could remember what they played. However, that's no matter. Hilda says I told the story right that night. And I've told it many a time since--to her and the children when I'm home from sea. They are good children, who believe everything that is told them--even the sagas of their grandfather. THE LAST PASSENGER Meade was having his coffee in the smoking-room. Major Crupp came in and took a seat beside him. A watchful steward hurried over. "Coffee, sir?" "Please." "Cigarette, Major?" asked Meade. "I will--thanks."