The relief of having it all over was excessive and I dare say we all behaved like children. I am sure that I did. I ordered up our good old American flag under which I had sailed for four months in the mine-sown waters off Port Arthur, the year before, and which during these last weeks had been snapping almost constantly at our fore, whipped by the bleak winter winds of the Black Sea. Its ends were frayed and raveled by the constant gales, yet with all its dirt of travel and disheveled parts, it looked good enough to me as it floated proudly at our masthead as we plowed serenely down the Bosphorus. I stationed Stomati at the stern to stand by the halyards of our big French ensign which, designating the nationality of our register, spread its ample bunting from our stern. And not a boat did we pass that did not get a cordial dip from us, and not a boat did we pass but I saw the men on the bridge turn and study through their glasses that rarely seen emblem that we bore at our foremast-head. Just before reaching the Golden Horn one passes Roberts College, perched high above the Bosphorus on a great bluff. The college, as all good Americans know, was founded by Dr. Washburn, one of our own true citizens who has brought greater glory to our Name and Flag in the Near East than all the ambassadors and warships that ever penetrated that remote land. With childish glee I went below to the engineer and bade him turn out all of his stokers and heap on all the coal he could crowd into the furnaces and speed up the engines to their topmost notch, for, as I told him, “I want the _France_ to look and do her prettiest as we pass the American College.” I returned to the bridge and swelled with pride as I glanced at the dense columns of smoke pouring majestically from our two chubby funnels, and the white wake that our screw was turning up astern as the engines beat out their maximum energy down in the bowels of the ship. As we were fairly abeam of the College I pulled the whistle lever and the deep foghorn bayed out its hoarse-throated blast. For a solid minute it roared and then came the response from the hill. Someone had heard the tumult and recognized the emblem that we carried, and in a jiffy windows were thrown open, and handkerchiefs, towels and sheets were waved frantically toward us. Again and again the _France_ tooted in response and again and again Stomati dipped our ensign in salute, while the crew cheered hysterically, just as though they were all Americans. “What a childish performance,” thinks the reader. No doubt it was. But after one has been at sea surrounded by indifference and hostility by the peoples one encounters and attacked by savage seas for two solid weeks, isn’t one to be forgiven a slight slip from dignity?