But once again my plans were changed for there was an urgent cable awaiting me from Chicago: “Return Constantinople give up _France_ proceed quickest possible St. Petersburg investigate Witte’s charges against our correspondent there whom he asserts has misquoted him.” So here was my whole program upset once more and for the first time my scheme for marooning my passengers began to seem injudicious. I could make no excuse for disobeying the governor at Trebizond if my next call was to be at a Turkish port. I thought a minute and my pet project evaporated. I would take them to the Golden Horn. But to forestall difficulties there I cabled Mr. Peter Jay, then chargé at our Embassy in Constantinople, that I was coming with refugees and to arrange to have the authorities take delivery of same on my arrival. Then I went back to the landing. The missionary, who was a lovely man and sympathized strongly with me, had been pleading with the governor for the refugees. While that mighty man stood bashfully by playing coyly with his sword tassels, the missionary delicately intimated to me that his Excellency on account of his good impression of me and of his desire to oblige, would waive the formalities of the pass-port visés and allow the unfortunates to land if I could see my way clear to defray his trouble in the matter for the sum of five pounds sterling per refugee. The old swine! I was indignant! I told the missionary that he could tell his fat friend that I would see him sizzling first and that I was going straight back to Constantinople, where I knew a general who was close to the Sultan and I would stay there a month if necessary but I certainly intended to get him “fired” for a rotten old grafter. I could not speak his language and the missionary declined to translate—so I left. I am afraid the Turk never really knew all I thought of him, but he did know that his generous offer was turned down, for his face flushed crimson and he spun on his heel and went to his office. I decided not to wait for him to make another move and so I jumped into the boat and pulled for the _France_. As soon as I was within calling distance I shouted to the skipper to get up the anchor, and as I stepped over the side, her engines were already turning over and her nose coming around toward the sea. I had sent Morris directly from the cable office to buy food of the refugee type and we brought off a boatload of cabbages and green things which should keep them until we could put them ashore at Constantinople. It was about nine-thirty that night as we were spinning merrily along over a fair sea, when the chief engineer came into my saloon. His face was like putty. “What is wrong?” I asked with some apprehension, for he was the pluckiest of the lot.