I made my way down to the landing place that afternoon with my dispatches and the bag of mail. On the pier alongside of which bobbed the little ship’s boat of the _France_ a great crowd was gathered. To me there seemed to be at least five hundred. And such a collection! Every race and nationality that a nightmare might conjure up. Armenians, Georgians, Turks, Jews, Persians, Russians from the Caucasus, Tartars and a dozen other races that resembled nothing that I had ever beheld. Each had his own roll of filthy baggage, mostly done up in sacks. Never had I in my life seen such an heterogeneous gathering nor such an assemblage of men that looked so utterly desperate and woebegone. It took me five minutes to work my way through the mass to the stairs where my boat lay. Morris was there swearing and arguing with the mob that was crowding about him yelling and entreating all at the same time. It sounded like the tumult one hears in the parrot house at the Zoo. I jumped into my boat and called to the crew to “give way” for the _France_. As soon as I could make my voice heard above the din I asked Morris what in the world it all meant anyway. I nearly fainted when he told me. They were my refugees! Not less than half a thousand, each with his heart set on escape from the country. Their plight was pitiful indeed, for the bulk of them had come from burning villages with only what they could carry in their hands. Driven from place to place they had finally landed in Batuum, which they found the worst of all, what between warring factions and the brutal soldiery, who chased them about the streets like sheep. Morris had done his work too well. It appeared that he had been to every shipping agent and had notices posted up that the _France_ was leaving that very day and would carry refugees out of the Caucasus free of charge. No wonder the mob was on the pier! Morris was in high feather and fairly clicking his teeth with sheer delight. “Yes, sir,” he said, “this is our busy day, sir! There hasn’t been a minute since I came back from shore this noon that Monroe D. Morris hasn’t been attending strictly to business. We are sure going to carry The Mails this trip, sir, and carry them right!” and he took me down in the little saloon where he had hung up a row of gunny sacks. Above them was a crudely printed notice: “Mails Close at 3:30 P. M. to-day.” On each sack was a separate placard which read “Constantinople Mail,” “Russian Mail,” “Trebizond Mail,” etc., on down the line of bags. Much to my surprise each of the bags was pretty well filled and more was coming in every few minutes.