He wilted on the spot, and took us ashore in his launch, where he led us before some dignified gentlemen in gorgeous uniforms who all talked at once in Russian. I waited and tried to look important. My “red sealing waxed” dispatches were again laid out for inspection, and my friend, the medical examiner, evidently repeated my remarks to him, for an orderly was sent on the run for another launch, and I was rushed across the harbor before another and higher official, who was covered with gold lace, where there was another interminable discussion, which finally ended in our being turned over to a burly ruffian in uniform, whom I learned was assigned to act as my chief of staff while I remained in town. Fortunately he spoke a little German, and two minutes after I had him alone I convinced him that his services were unnecessary. His conscience troubled him for disobeying his superior officer, but five roubles fixed that, so, four hours after we dropped anchor, I found myself free to pursue my way unhampered. The situation in Odessa at this time was intolerable, as I found within an hour after I had delivered the dispatches to the British consul, and had an opportunity of getting down to work. That day, as I then learned, was the Czar’s birthday. For weeks previous there had been talk of another grand demonstration on the part of the revolutionists. It had been pleasantly rumored that there was to be a promiscuous killing to be conducted under the auspices of the revolutionary committee. These prearranged events rarely materialize in Russia, as the gentlemen supposed to be in charge of such proceedings are generally dug out of their cellars and are well on their way to Siberia on the date set for their entertainments. My experience in five visits to Russia during the period of convulsion was that the average Muscovite revolutionist has no equal (off the stage) for simplicity and ineffective activity. The moment you set eyes on him you know he is a revolutionist. His hair stands on end, his eyes are wild and his dress is in disorder. In fact, nothing is lacking to complete the make-up of the part. Every time he has an opportunity he climbs on a barrel or some other conspicuous spot in a public place and proceeds to air his ideas. He will point out at the top of his lungs the advantages of bombs and miscellaneous assassinations. He has a well developed programme as to what ought to be done with the Czar, and as for the grand dukes, he simply tears out his hair in handfuls when he talks about them. When he isn’t engaged in talking he goes off and buries himself in a garret and writes inflammatory and compromising letters and articles, which he leaves about just as a stage hero does important family papers. The police (whom you know to be police, just as quickly as you recognize a revolutionist to be a revolutionist) stand around and look wise and make notes. The moment any trouble is