But in the meantime I had to decide about our refugees who were still roaring in the distance, not clearly understanding whether they were to be abandoned entirely or not. I called the skipper and asked him how many we could possibly carry. As a matter of fact there was no room for any save on the deck and in the chain locker forward, as our own crew filled the balance of the _France’s_ very small accommodations. We made an inspection and finally decided that we might stretch our space to hold thirty. Stomati the cook, armed with his seven languages, was sent off in the boat to pick out thirty likely-looking refugees. I instructed him to accept none without passports, which at once cut the total down about half. When the crowd on shore heard that only thirty could go there was a rush for the boat that nearly put the entire front rank into the sea. So after all there was not much of a chance to pick and choose and the boat brought off the first that came to hand, with their sacks and miscellaneous dunnage. Morris and Spero stood at the gangway inspecting passports and hustled the unaccepted passportless back into the boat to be relanded. For an hour the little boat plied back and forth until the _France_ was alive with the human wrecks and their impedimenta. In the meantime I was entertaining a few friends in my saloon who had come out to say good-by. By four in the afternoon our refugees were all aboard and our papers duly received from the port officials. The sun had gone under a cloud and a stiff wind was blowing in from the sea as with anchor up, we swung around the end of the breakwater, with long blasts from our deep-toned foghorn as a farewell to friends ashore. The flag on the American Consulate was dipped and some enthusiast on the roof let go both barrels of a shotgun, to which we replied by bending our own ensign. In fifteen minutes we were at sea and the top of the Greek Church, the only sign left to us of the little town, to which it had been the first to welcome us from the storm a few days before.