Harwich hove into view at what should have been sundown. By six o’clock we were at the pier, boarded by the naval authorities of the port and the customs-men. Sir Edward Goschen’s party, after the Ambassador himself had vouched for the identity of each and every one of us, was disembarked without formalities, and at six-forty-five P.M. of Friday, August 7, we found ourselves treading British soil. There were policemen, soldiers, reporters and photographers on the dock, but no formal welcoming delegation for the Ambassador. Somebody whispered to him that a special train would convey him and his refugees to London, and to it he took his way as undemonstratively as if he were a Cook’s tourist back from a "tripper’s" jaunt to the Continent. I remarked to Tower that I was afraid Americans would have made a real fuss over Goschen if he were _our_ Ambassador home from the enemy’s country; whereupon _The Daily News_ man ejaculated something which was to ring in my ears for a year or more, whenever I presumed to comment on that strange phenomenon with which it is now my task to deal--England and the English in war-time: "Wile, you Americans can not understand the English character." Tower was right. An American is general manager of the Great Eastern Railway. I strongly suspect that he must have had an alien hand in even the semblance of a "demonstration" of greeting which Sir Edward Goschen encountered when our train pulled into Liverpool Street Station a little after eleven o’clock. I did not wait to watch it, nor even to claim my baggage, for there was a hungry first edition waiting for my "story" at _The Daily Mail_ office, and to Carmelite House I flew in the first taxi into which I could leap. By midnight Beattie, the night editor, was tearing "copy" from my hands as fast as an Underwood could reel it off, and it was rapidly approaching breakfast-time when I called it a night’s work and went to bed--in England at last. CHAPTER XIII COMPLACENCY RULES THE WAVES