They chose for me the most incompetent of helpers. They sent me all sorts of impossible assistants, with whom I would not associate my name and my proud record. They foisted upon me unskilful enthusiasts who were often sent to England without any notification coming to me, and these, in most cases, were detected and suffered at the hands of the law. Do not think that I have any axe to grind. I am only concerned with the welfare of the Fatherland, but there were moments when even I, faithful servant and obedient subordinate of higher authorities, “kicked myself against the pricks,” as the English say, at the absurd lack of comprehension and seriousness which was shown. One afternoon I had returned from the country, where I had been superintending the erection of a temporary wireless plan, when my office-boy informed me that a man was waiting to see me. I found him sitting on the edge of the table, smoking the stump of a cigar. He was a tall man, rather broad, and by the fact that he was wearing his hat in my office, and that the room was filled with the rank smell of tobacco, I gathered that he was an American of the lowest class. He was dressed expensively but loudly. He wore a great bunch of seals which dangled from a broad silk ribbon, and had two diamond rings upon the little finger of his right hand. He nodded as I came in, but did not attempt either to take off his hat or to stand on his feet. For the moment I did not recognize him. “May I ask to what I owe the honour of this visit?” I demanded politely. “Cut all that out, Heine,” he said coarsely. “Why, don’t you recognize your old friend, Big Jim?” “Don’t call me Heine,” I said hastily. I recognized the man at once as one of the private detective staff of the Hamburg-American line. It had been my duty to keep an eye upon undesirable characters, and Big Jim Riley was as well known to New York as he was to London as a “con.” man. He used to work the boats of the Hamburg-American line in the days before the war, and for some time was one of a gang of crooks that spent their lives crossing and re-crossing the Atlantic. Though we had many complaints about the man, he had too big a pull in New York for us to interfere with him. I had lived with Big Jim and his gang in that spirit of camaraderie and tolerance which typifies the attitude of a shrewd German detective to the criminal classes. “Why, so it is,” I said heartily, “but you must not call me Heine, Jim.” “Ain’t you a Dutchman?” he said. “I never was a German!” I doubt whether he saw the subtle correction. “I am a Chilian and I am happy to say that I hate the Germans and all their work.” Big Jim’s eyes opened wide. “Well, now, if that don’t beat the band,” he said, “so that’s your name, is it?” He pointed to the name that was painted on the glass panel of the door, and I nodded.