trust a world beat of 2000 words to the mail, and so it was that the melancholy Lewis went for a trip over the frontier. But to return to my first morning in Turkey, it was obvious that at least a day must elapse before I could receive the necessary authority to charter a boat (for even the Turks had passed that telegram) could be expected, so that afternoon I spent in a pouring rainstorm on a tiny launch among the shipping interests of the Bosphorus, looking for a boat that might answer my purposes. CHAPTER IV _We Charter a Tug and Become Dispatch Bearer of His Britannic Majesty and Learn of Winter Risks in the Black Sea Too Late to Retreat_ Chartering a dispatch boat is more bother, and offers as much chance of being fleeced as the purchase of a horse. However, four months in the graft-infested waters of the China coast, with a tug during the war, and another month later spread out from Hong-Kong to the Suez Canal in a vain search for a boat with which to cover the movements of the Baltic fleet en route to its destination in the Straits of Tschurma, had taught me at least one thing, namely, I knew what I wanted. So I spent the afternoon in a launch in the pouring sleet and rain of that bleak winter day on the Bosphorus in looking over the available shipping. Nobody wanted to charter a boat for such a short time as I contemplated needing one. Although there were dozens to choose from on long contracts, when I talked charter by the week, the owners either withdrew entirely, or put up the price so high that my hair stood on end. There was the _Warren Hastings_, the finest salvage boat in the world, to be had at the Dardanelles. She was 260 feet long with two funnels, twin screws, that would drive her nineteen knots, and fitted throughout like a yacht. I was sick to get her, but her owners were in England. A small fortune in “rush” cables disclosed that nothing could be done under a month’s charter. Next I learned of a British gunboat whose name I forget, that had been sold to a salvage company in the Sea of Marmora. She had left England for delivery to her new owners, and was expected daily. She, too, was speedy, and had accommodations that would delight the heart of an admiral. But again my hopes were blasted. A cable stated that heavy weather in the Bay of Biscay had rendered imperative a week’s delay at “Gib” for the overhauling of her engines, and I saw my man-of-war dream fade away. A Russian coasting vessel next appeared on the horizon. I could get her cheap for any length of time, from a week up. She was a sweet little boat with clipper bows and the grace of a fairy, but an investigation showed old compound engines that could only do seven and a half knots in fine weather, and she passed out of the reckoning. A German salvage boat met my requirements, but her owners vetoed the deal at the eleventh hour. Next in line came a twin-screw tugboat called the _Rhone_. I all but seized on her, but