On land there were about fifty Boches with all their goods and chattles--furniture, pianos, enormous trunks, a regular migration. The Germans do very well in Morocco. They have all passed the military age, for it is so written in their papers--the youngest was fifty. You who are a physiognomist would have put him down at thirty-five. The authorities ordered us to treat them with respect in accordance with a section in the International Law, and to give them accommodation, not as prisoners, but as passengers “under supervision.” Fourgues, who hates underhand dealing, said that he was not going to inconvenience the crew for the Boches and that he should put them on deck. Then he was told to construct wooden shelters on the deck, for dormitories and cabins. He said he had no wood for the purpose, so they sent him planks and new joists and some military carpenters, and in forty-eight hours the entire deck from the funnel to the stern was covered over with a fine hutment. We looked like one of those wash-houses on the Seine. But, Lor’ love you! that wasn’t all! There was the furniture of these gentlemen, enough to fill a train, and they did not want it broken. Fourgues had planned to pile it forward and then lash it above the main hatch. “You see, my boy,” he said to me, pulling his goatee, “there won’t be much left of their gadgets if we get a good sou’-wester in our backs. However, they can make matches with the remains.” Unfortunately, in the first batch there was a piano. We slung and hoisted it with tackle, and in spite of the swell it came aboard pretty well and was just over the hatch. But as it began to descend, blowed if the cable didn’t foul the winch and stop short, our piano in the air. Three huge rollers came along, and everybody hung on to keep from taking a toss. The piano swung once, then once again, and then _bang_ on to the port railing. The lid and cover flew off. _Bang_ to starboard! The piano veered, the black and white keys chased each other over the deck, the strings snapped one after the other like a machine-gun, and the whole show smashed up. It looked like a burst spring mattress. Fourgues was overcome with that laugh of his which makes his tummy shake, and turned as red as a tomato. As for me, I was laughing so much I could hardly stand up, and the crew howled for joy. But the owner, a Boche in spectacles, raised the deuce. He fired broadsides of insults at us, but fortunately he spoke in his own disgusting language, for Fourgues was beginning to lose his hair and would have chucked him overboard without hesitation if he had understood a single word. It was just before the Marne and the Boches were jeering at us to their hearts’ content. This particular one went on land shaking his fist. We dumped what remained of the piano into the sea and loaded the rest of the furniture. But the next day we received an order to put all their stuff in the hold. A little tin-pot officer