There was much freight on the docks, great stacks of lumber and bales of hides waiting to be shipped, but there were very few boats tied up there. The first ship which they came to was a small steamer where there were a couple of sailors talking in a language that sounded strangely familiar to the boys, and yet which did not seem, after all, to be one with which they were acquainted. They stopped and listened and were more puzzled than ever. Some words sounded like Spanish spoken with a strong foreign accent, but the next words would be entirely strange to them. “What in creation are they talking, Sid?” asked Raymond. “Is it Spanish they are trying to get at?” “It’s mighty curious Spanish, if it is,” replied Sidney. “I tell you what, Ray,” he continued, after a moment of thought, “it must be Italian. I think that sounds a good deal like Spanish. I believe I can talk with them.” Sidney then asked one of the men in Spanish where they were going, and the man replied promptly in his own tongue that they were going to Rome, a reply of which the boys gathered the meaning very clearly. “Gee, Sid,” exclaimed Raymond, “that’s swell! You talk Spanish and he talks Italian, and you both understand. Try him again.” The next attempt, however, was not so successful, possibly because Sidney embodied too much in his question. He asked the sailor when they were going to leave, and if he thought their captain would take some passengers. The man looked puzzled for a moment, and then replied in a statement that sounded very long and intricate to the unlearned ears of the boys. While they were considering and trying to select words at whose meaning they might guess, a voice spoke behind them in perfectly plain English. “Where do you young gentlemen want to go?” The boys wheeled and saw a stocky, middle-aged man. He wore side whiskers, and there was something decidedly English in his appearance. “We don’t care much where we go,” said Sidney, “so long as it is west. We want to get back to New York, but I don’t suppose we’ll find a ship here for that port.” “No, you will not, but perhaps I can help you out. I am Captain Foster, of the Princess Mary, and I clear in the morning for Venice.” “Oh, captain,” cried Sidney eagerly, “can you take us?” “Well, I don’t carry passengers; I have no place for ’em; but I’d do anything I could to help Americans to get home. I fancy you are Americans?” “Yes, we are,” replied Sidney, “and our mother is waiting in New York for us.” Captain Foster looked at the boys curiously. “If I may be so bold,” he said, “you are pretty young to be in a country like this alone, and you look as though you had traveled some.” “I should say we had traveled some,” broke in Raymond, “we came over the Caucasus.” “By the Dariel Pass, in a motor-car, I fancy,” said the captain. “Not much! We hoofed it, by way of Bezheeta to Tiflis.”