Probably the first point to which the traveller in Rome directs his steps is Saint Peter's and I was no exception. I took a car to this wonderful church and spent the entire day drinking in its marvels. From the lantern on the dome (where I poked my crimson head—five hundred and eighty-three feet above the ground—and took in the amazing panorama of the Eternal City) to the main floor, I left little unseen. I was quite content to be a spectator and took no active part in the customary devotions of the average pilgrim. As I watched the long line of the faithful file by the large bronze statue of Saint Peter and osculate his big toe—which has been worn down, through the centuries, nearly half an inch by this unsanitary process—I decided to give these poor peasants a lesson in hygiene, but the play was taken away from me by a high dignitary of the Church. A well-fed clean-shaven man, dressed in a red cassock, was approaching the statue, accompanied by another ecclesiastic in purple. At once I recognised them as a cardinal and a bishop. They were going to kiss the toe of the saint. I forced my way through the crowd to see how they would act. The cardinal drew a white handkerchief from his cassock and diligently set to work to give the toe of the huge figure of Saint Peter a vigorous scrubbing. He was so adept at these menial movements that I concluded he must be one of the peasant prelates of whom we hear so frequently in America. The respectful pilgrims were much interested in the cleansing which the cardinal was giving Saint Peter's toe, but the example was of no avail. When he was satisfied that the member was sufficiently sterilised, the church official stooped and brushed it with his lips. He was followed by the bishop. Then the thousand or more ignorant pilgrims passed by and performed this act of devotion without a thought of a microbe. I can image the activity that would be exhibited on this toe under the lens of a microscope after such an army of the unwashed had filed by.

The next day I returned to Saint Peter's and took up as companions an American Methodist preacher and his wife, who were en route to India to resume their missionary duties. This unrefined and prejudiced pair of representatives of our Great Middle West performed their sight-seeing obligations in a thoroughly bigoted Protestant manner. The Pope and all his adherents were denounced every time a new picture came to their notice and as they watched the priests of Rome chanting the ancient liturgy. They were not very pleasant companions but I concluded that they were better than none at all.

Each day during my stay in Rome the three of us would meet in the morning, map out our itinerary and follow it closely. We visited the Vatican—that atrocious piece of architecture; we spent some time in the Sistine Chapel with the usual horde of tourists; we drove to the Coliseum and the Pantheon and saw hundreds of churches in all parts of the city.

We hired a carriage, with meter and driver, and rode, along the Appian Way to the Catacombs of Saint Callixtus. As we alighted at our destination I took down, in my note-book, the figure that the meter registered, having a suspicion that the cab driver might cheat us. My suspicion was well-founded for, on our return, the gauge indicated that an additional six miles had been rung up. The fare was cheap enough and we had little objection to the amount our bill was approaching. However, I remonstrated with the driver to let him know that our eyes were open and that he had not tricked us without our knowledge. The climax of this incident was reached at the end of our journey when, in exacting our bill, the driver with a sudden jerk of the meter forced it up five points more and then insisted on money for the last dishonestly acquired mileage. We, of course, refused and paid him only for the distance we had travelled, plus the increase registered while visiting the Catacombs. As we walked down the street he followed with his carriage loudly demanding more money. Finally an Italian policeman intervened and we were brought to the first police station. Here the magistrate heard both sides of the tale and on giving the matter a few minutes' consideration told us to go on our way and placed the poor cab driver under arrest for fraud.

For a city with a distinctive atmosphere I recommend Florence. To walk its various streets is a rest for the weary. After the teeming millions of oriental cities, the repose and quietness of this attractive town is most restful. Florence is worth a visit if one only sits in its beautiful cathedral and thinks. Its identity as the birthplace of Dante, of Petrarch, of Boccaccio, of Galileo, of Michael Angelo, of Leonardo da Vinci, of Andrea del Sarto and a host of other great minds is sufficient to stamp it with a character which none but the dumb brute would fail to discern.

With the contents of my pocketbook approaching the vanishing point I could only visit the large cities of Italy and had to give up all idea of seeing the countless small towns and villages with their wealth of historical association and present-day charm. However, even a tramp would not think of touring Italy without spending a few days in Venice. Its unique situation, if not its rich past, would be sufficient incentive to have it included in the itinerary of the most humble traveller.

Venice is a city without a wheeled vehicle, without trees, without sidewalks and without many of the ordinary appliances found in a modern community. Situated as it is on a cluster of seventy-two small islands, each inch of space is utilised and there is no subdividing of large tracts of land into fifty-foot lots. Its streets are a regular maze and the only way to get about, in the event one does not hire a guide, is to follow the crowd and trust to luck. This was my method, which at times proved very interesting. In this manner I wandered aimlessly along and, after a couple of hours' walking, the beautiful Piazzo of San Marco burst upon me. It was a scene I shall never forget. Several thousand people were assembled for a band concert and I was shortly lost in the crowd and had nothing to do but take in the many interesting things about me. The stately and oriental-looking church of Saint Mark at one end; the imposing Campanile, the ornate Palace of the Doges and the old government buildings now converted into stores and cafés, presented a picture for beauty and symmetry of design which is probably unequalled.

In the middle of the square a man drove a donkey hitched to a small cart, and the novelty of the conveyance aroused the curiosity of not only the children but of the grown people as well.

Midnight seemed to be the hour at which I was destined to make my advent into nearly all European cities. It was at this hour that my train pulled into Milan. Finding cheap hotels had almost become second nature to me and, with little difficulty, I located a comfortable domicile and was soon enjoying the rest which no one but a weary traveller can truly appreciate. Most of my brief stay in this city was devoted to the famous cathedral. This church, the second largest in Europe, stands alone from an architectural standpoint. It is richly decorated with statues and sculptured pinnacles—more than two thousand in number—which from the street look like countless inverted icicles.

CHAPTER XVI

EUROPE ON A VANISHING BANK-ROLL

My journey through Europe was a foot-race. I was trying to beat a bank-roll which was rapidly diminishing and which I feared would be totally exhausted before I reached England, where I hoped to get work. If my money had been rubber I could not have stretched it over a greater distance.

From Milan to Zurich is a big jump in Europe and especially is this true when one considers the perfect Paradise of things there are to see. But with my depleted financial condition always confronting me I had to press on and to content myself with a train-window view of the beautiful Italian "lake country" and the rugged scenery of Switzerland.

Why I went to Zurich, I don't exactly know, but I suppose it must have been the cheapest trip open to me. Aside from scenery Zurich possesses little of interest. After a few hours there, during which I visited the Ton-halle, the cathedral in which Zwingli—the Swiss reformer—set forth his peculiar doctrines and made an excursion of the town, I went on my way to Munich.

My train journey was broken by a trip on a little steamer across Lake Constance. This small body of water is on the boundary line between Switzerland and Germany and, on landing, I was received by a German policeman who evidently sized me up for a spy. I took him for a baggageman and when he spoke to me told him to "beat it." He resented my tone and manner and pressed his solicitations with a little more severity. At last it dawned on me that he was an officer and I decided that for my general welfare it would be well to treat him more courteously. I soon learned from him that he wanted my passport. I had that document in my possession but knew that it was not necessary for an American citizen to present such an instrument in Germany so I declined to produce it. I was able to satisfy the inquisitiveness of the gentleman by answering a few questions, and he allowed me to go on my way.

In my diary I find the following entry concerning Munich:—"Munich is celebrated for two things, its art and its beer. I spent little time on the art but confined myself to the beer. I sampled it thoroughly and can say that it is a high-class liquid. For the equivalent of two cents one gets a large glass, and for five cents a toilet pitcher sufficiently large to drown a ten-pound baby.

"There are no saloons in Germany or on the continent of Europe, liquor being sold in restaurants and cafés, all respectable places frequented by women as well as men. I once knew a good American Baptist woman who was as strict an abstainer as ever lived, but she could not withstand the temptation to partake of beer in Munich during her sojourn there. I understand that many staunch prohibitionists temporarily fall off the wagon in this manner.

"In Italy every one drinks vino, but in Germany men, women and children drink beer. For an Italian to eat a meal without wine or a German without beer would be considered in these countries as extraordinary as if a man should bathe his feet with his shoes on. It is a common enough thing to see a pretty German girl of eighteen calmly drinking a schooner of beer instead of the afternoon cup of tea of her American sister. Absolute prohibition has no more chance in Europe than the snowball of the classic simile, and one might as well talk to a turtle on the subject as to these liquor-drinking but temperate peoples."

From Munich to Vienna is about a day's journey and the third-class accommodations are the poorest I encountered in Europe. I sat in one of these compartments with three Austrians for the entire distance without saying a word, assuming that none of them spoke English. As our train was drawing into Vienna I unthinkingly enquired the time of the man opposite me. He replied in excellent English and we both smiled to think that all day we had sat in silence although communication would have been possible if we had only known it.

"You are an American, are you not?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied.

"What are you doing away over here?"

"Just knocking around the country," I informed him. "Do you know where I can find a cheap hotel in Vienna?"

He said that he did and, when we arrived at the station, very kindly conducted me to a clean and modest hostelry.

"What are your plans for the evening?" he enquired.

"I have none," I said.

"I expect to meet a couple of my friends and should be very glad to have you come along," he added cordially.

I cheerfully accepted this opportunity of making some acquaintances in a city the size of Vienna. We boarded a street car, received a transfer about the dimensions of an American Sunday newspaper, changed to another line and were soon at a café, where I was introduced to his two friends.

These three Austrians were clean-cut chaps of the middle class. During the evening I learned that their occupations were respectively piano-tuner, barber and window-trimmer. To add an American tramp to this trio made, I thought, a rather extraordinary assortment of vocations. The prospects for a lively evening looked very gloomy, for the combined wealth of such an aggregation was naturally small. We dined at a big restaurant and then set out to see the town.

First we lodged ourselves in one of Vienna's large cafés, where we remained for two hours watching the fascinating crowds and listening to the music. During this time we had but one glass each of the delicious Vienna coffee and when I suggested that it was only right that we should continue to buy while sitting at a table and enjoying ourselves my companions assured me that it was all right to spend a whole evening in a café with the purchase of but one drink, for every one did it. As an American this seemed strange to me, to say the least. I confess that I felt rather sheepish about it.

The barber and the piano-tuner bade us farewell and the window-trimmer and I started out to see Vienna by moonlight. I shortly discovered that the party was to be at my expense for, as poor as I was, I was a rich man compared to my Austrian companion who from his vocation received a salary of twenty dollars a month. However, I was willing to carry him for a while as he was not only good company but served as an excellent guide.

The places we left unseen in the night life of Vienna do not exist. My window-trimmer friend certainly knew the town and led me into all the cafés and joints he could find. We were ready for anything and after a general round of the more respectable places we heard of a large public ball which was being held in the opposite side of the city, and thither we decided to go. The late Hinky Dink's dances in Chicago or the "Chickens' Ball" given in honour of an ex-pugilist in San Francisco might be considered the last word in refinement compared with this Vienna function. It would be indiscreet to go into a detailed description of this "social" affair for fear of infringing on the American postal laws. The immense hall was crowded with representatives of Vienna's underworld. The women were attired in short skirts, tights and one-piece bathing suits. Liquor was so plentiful that it rose and fell like the ocean tide. The rag, the turkey trot and other modern dances of America, which are the subject of so much criticism, would look like devotional exercises alongside of the steps that were executed at this four-in-the-morning function.

The daytime I spent by myself seeing the more ennobling sights of the city, while my Viennese pal arranged neckties, collars, shirts and pajamas in the windows of a large clothing store. With the aid of Baedeker I made as thorough an investigation of the daylight sights of the city as I had made of those of the night.

Each evening I met my native friend. One night we went for dinner to a quiet little restaurant, where we made the acquaintance of a floorwalker in one of the large department stores of the metropolis and his elderly fiancée, who were seated at the same table with us. They were an interesting pair. It was a mystery to the woman why I should have wanted to come to Austria when America was such a fine country. "You must be very rich to be able to travel around the world," was a remark she made—a remark I had heard probably five hundred times during my trip.

On the way to the café the window-trimmer and I were approached by a street vendor who was selling plaster of paris busts of the famous men of Austria.

"How much are they?" I enquired.

"Two dollars each," he replied.

"I will give you a nickel for one," I said as a joke.

"All right, sir," he exclaimed in an instant, and half dazed with the sudden reduction in his price I bought two of the images, giving one to my friend. The other I purposely let fall on the cement sidewalk and the bust of Francis Joseph, whose likeness it was, went into a thousand pieces at the feet of the vendor—who was much disgusted at my wilful extravagance. The Austrian drew the bust of a two-year-old baby, purporting to represent one of Austria's illustrious sons at that tender age, and this ungainly toy he presented very formally to the café keeper's wife, who presided at the till. She received the piece of bric-a-brac in a most gracious manner and with much amusement. The baby was perched on the top of the till and there remained the rest of the evening.

Late that night I was the guest of the window-trimmer in the room in which he lived. He had prepared a supper of rye bread, cheese and beer. The repast consumed, he entertained me by playing a few simple tunes on his cheap and shabby-looking violin. About midnight we separated and as I was leaving Vienna in the morning we said our last farewell—among the most touching of my trip.

On my way to Budapest I made the acquaintance of a Serbian fisherman, an Hungarian blacksmith and a plumber. They all spoke English, for they had lived in America, and when they were not talking to me they were expounding the fine points of that nation to their countrymen in the third-class coach of the train. A Roumanian who was aboard, becoming interested in my travels, invited me to be his guest on a three weeks' horseback trip through the mountains of the Balkan States. He said that we could put up at farmhouses for nothing and that my only expense would be the hire of the saddle and the horse. This was a very alluring invitation but the state of my finances made it impossible for me to accept.

Baedeker states that only the "lower orders," whatever that means, use third-class coaches in Europe. He should travel in this manner for a while and he would change his mind. The German third-class is good enough for any human being, and the passengers whom I met looked very civilised and had all the appearance of taking at least a weekly bath and of wearing underclothes. The Austrian third-class is an exception and carries a lower grade of humanity, representatives of the Great Unwashed, who comprise about eighty per cent. of this earth's inhabitants.

forum

I mingled with the bustling crowds on the streets of Budapest for three days and then became a second-class passenger en route to Paris, there being no through third-class coach. This journey through the beautiful Austrian and Swiss Alps was uneventful. I was only entertained by a German, who had returned from America where he held a position as cook in a short-order restaurant in Butte, and a French couple who fed their two-year-old baby large quantities of beer. This infant had a capacity that would make many an American undergraduate envious.

Alighting from my train at midnight I walked through the crowded station and in a minute was making my way along a deserted street of Paris. I intended to locate an hotel as soon as possible. I had hardly gone a block when a heavy down-pour of rain set in and I foresaw that I was in for a thorough drenching unless I sought shelter at once. At that moment a man appeared out of the darkness and enquired if I wanted an hotel. It had been my custom to decline all street hotel hawkers but, in view of the heavy rain, I decided to accept the services of the man and to find out what kind of an establishment he had. He took my hand bag and started back towards the station with me close behind him. We turned to the right and walked along the railroad tracks while the rain continued to come down in torrents. Three blocks in this direction and my guide crossed the tracks and proceeded down a dark street. Suspicions began to arise within me as to where the Frenchman was leading me. My knowledge of French was so limited that I could not find out anything but that I was going to an hotel. I decided to continue. I had heard stories of how innocent travellers are sometimes trapped by the thugs of European cities, drugged and robbed. This thought came to my mind but did not weaken my determination to go ahead and get under cover as soon as possible. We continued along this dark thoroughfare. We seemed to be in the wholesale district and there was not a human being in sight. Finally we turned down a narrow alley, at the end of which was a decrepit stairway. Up this rickety flight we ascended and at the top turned into a room dimly lighted by the intermittent flicker of a candle, which was resting on a high desk. Behind this desk I could see a bearded Frenchman who peered over his spectacles as the two of us entered. My guide and the old fellow exchanged a few words and I was conducted down the hall to my room. This compartment contained a wash-stand and a heavy wooden bed. Inside, my suspicions began to increase as to the safety of my place of abode. There seemed to be an atmosphere of mystery and I thought that I might expect anything. I listened at the door for strange sounds but heard nothing but a creaking noise which seemed to come from the back end of the building. Before retiring I decided to take every precaution and made up my mind that if any Frenchman attempted to disturb my rest with the intention of relieving me of my money he was going to be welcomed with at least the best fight he ever encountered. I first locked the door with a pass key I had in my possession. Then I placed the back of the bed against the door and wedged the wash-stand in between it and the wall. The room was so small that the stand made a tight fit in the space left for it. Armed with a piece of pipe I found in one of the drawers of the wash-stand I threw myself on the bed, clothes and all, and shortly was as sound asleep as if guarded by a regiment.

My suspicions may have been nothing but a bubble to explode in the morning. However, I am sure that I was in the proper place to be stripped of my coin by any means necessary. I evidently was not worth plucking. I was awakened in the morning by the moving trains in the yards near-by and without any delay grabbed my bag and in a minute was out of the joint on my way to a more civilised part of the city. I learned from a French shop-keeper a few days later that in this very lodging house in which I feared foul play, two Englishmen had been gagged, robbed and dumped into an alley for the rest of the night.

My experience in this hotel netted me two things: scabies and influenza. The bed clothes were so filthy that I was infected by a germ which penetrates the skin and causes no end of trouble. It was fully three months later that I mastered this disease, known by the euphonious name of scabies, and only after prolonged treatment by a doctor. My exposure to the rain and cold gave me an attack of influenza which, with its accompanying fever, pains and aches, was poor equipment with which to see Paris.

In spite of this malady I kept moving and succeeded in finding a clean and comfortable room at one franc a day on the fifth floor of a small hotel. The main objection to this place was the absence of an elevator and it was a most fatiguing effort for a sick man to climb these five flights several times a day. Later I learned that I had not much improved upon my neighbourhood of the first night, for I was now located in Monte Mart.

To spend a few days in Paris without company except a case of influenza was anything but a cheerful outlook. I went to a drug store and told one of the clerks my symptoms. He put up a prescription which I took conscientiously, at the same time exerting my will power not to let the disease get sufficient hold on my constitution to force me to bed and make me a public charge of the municipal authorities. Each day I arose, hoping that my fever would subside, and dragged myself about the city. On the Rue de Turbigo in the vicinity of the Halles Centrales, I fainted away and fell to the sidewalk. When I recovered consciousness I was speeding at a rapid rate in an ambulance for the municipal hospital. A glass of water was being choked down my throat. This resuscitated me. Accompanied by one of the ambulance attendants I returned to my hotel.

The average visitor to Paris places himself in the hands of a guide connected with one of the large hotels and is thus relieved of all the routine and detail of systematically and profitably seeing the city. A guide is a luxury never meant for a poor man. I never entertained the thought of hiring such an individual. A map of the streets, a Baedeker and some intelligence was all I had. With this outfit I explored Paris. Sometimes I would go about sight-seeing methodically, and again I would simply drift. To drift is the more interesting. Down the Boulevard Magneta I found my way to the Halles Centralles, the central and largest market of Paris. I wandered through the interesting pavillons which cover twenty-two acres. I jostled along the narrow streets, covered with hay, decayed vegetables and other refuse, and mingled with the natives. I little realised what was in store for me. I crossed the Seine and visited the Hotel des Invalides, under the dome of which repose the ashes of Napoleon I. I moved on to the Pantheon where I attached myself to a group of American tourists conducted by a Cook's guide. This harmless gathering surely could not lead me into any trouble. I stood in their midst and listened to the mumbling speech of the guide as though I were a regular member of the party and had paid my fee. We were taken to the vaults in which are located the tombs of Victor Hugo, Mirabeau, Rousseau, Voltaire and others. An attendant of the Pantheon went in advance of our little procession and unlocked the heavy doors which led into the various tombs and the curious looking crowd would draw together while the guide grew eloquent on the life of some reclining corpse. When we surrounded the tomb of Voltaire I became so engrossed by the fact that I was in the presence of the remains of this master mind of the past that I failed to leave with the party and remained a minute, rather stupefied. When I returned to my senses I found that the porter had locked the door of the vault and I was incarcerated in the gruesome abode of a dead man. The Thomas Cook and Son party had returned to the main floor and I was the sole living creature in the crypt of the building. To add to my ghastly situation the lights were turned off, for it was nearly night-fall. My prospects for immediate freedom were rapidly diminishing. I decided to call out in the hope that I would attract the attention of one of the porters on the main floor. I gave a shriek which sent shivers down my spine and nearly frightened me to death. I at once saw that it was useless to shout as a means of being rescued, for the echoes of my call resounded in such confusion from the walls of the small vault that they sounded like a bedlam of bass drums turned loose. If I shrieked again I was afraid that I might awake Voltaire. I had heard ghost stories in which the main character, on a dare, voluntarily entered the tomb of a dead man; but I never thought that I should play this rôle against my will in the heart of Paris. There was nothing left for me to do but wait until some one came to liberate me. The prospect of this event's happening before morning was very remote. I therefore resigned myself to my confinement and concluded to spend the night communing with the spirit of Voltaire. I hope that the august gentleman enjoyed my company. I know that I didn't enjoy his. On previous occasions in my life I have, under trying circumstances, spent lengthy and wearisome nights, but as I recall them, they were mere flashes of time compared to the long, ghostly and dark hours I slept with Voltaire. It was about six o'clock in the evening and I estimated that it would be at least nine in the morning before another party of travellers would be conducted into the vaults of the Pantheon. I made up my mind to spend most of this time in sleep, if such a thing were possible. I stretched out on the cold pavement, alongside of my bed-mate, closed my eyes and tried to imagine that I was in a warm couch and thus hypnotise myself into sleep. My mind refused to transform the hard slab under me into a comfortable mattress. The corpse of Voltaire was haunting my brain and the stillness of the tomb nearly drove me insane. The long hours wore away while I lay awake, my mind full of hideous thoughts and imaginations. About midnight I dozed off from pure mental exhaustion and spent the rest of the night the victim of the most gruesome and ghastly dreams any man ever had. I awoke at six o'clock, only to spend three more hours in this fearful prison cell. I was literally buried alive. Shortly after nine I heard the clump of feet and chatter of voices and I knew a group of tourists was approaching. My spirits were immediately transformed. In a minute the tourists stood before my tomb. The door was unlocked and I rushed out like a wild beast. The attendant stood speechless. The sightseers drew away in fright. A living man leaping from a tomb of the dead! I did not wait to give any explanation or receive congratulations on obtaining my freedom, but bounded down the crypt to the stairs, up to the main floor and out of the Pantheon into the fresh air. Those fifteen hours with Voltaire seemed like a century, and I sauntered down the street with the feeling that Rip van Winkle had nothing on me.

CHAPTER XVII

FROM LUXURY TO HUNGER

Recollections of a jail sentence in the Pantheon were enough to make any man leave town. The next morning I was riding through northern France gazing at the beautiful fields and gently rolling hills from the window of a third-class coach. I was bound for London. At Calais I filed by the immigration officials with the rest of the third-class passengers before I was allowed on board the ship sailing for Dover. This is an indignity which the American tourist who travels first- or second-class does not have to undergo.

The soft outline of England's shore appeared through the mist of the channel, and as I stood on the deck of the steamer I turned over in my mind the fact that my trip would soon be over. A few weeks' roaming in the British Isles and I thought I would be on my way across the Atlantic. But with a foot-loose traveller anything is likely to happen—and England proved no exception in having a surprise for me which upset my vague plans and entirely changed my course.

It is only a few hours from Dover to London and the road passes through picturesque country scenery. The green fields and meadows, the fat, wholesome sheep, peaceably grazing, the quaint windmills and zig-zag fences and the substantial village houses all made me fall in love with England at once. At dusk I was one of London's seven million. I was now in a land where the people speak a language I had not used very much for some time, and where I would be able to make myself understood without using my hands. I could also eat in almost true American style. England is the only country in Europe where one can get a real breakfast. It was certainly a pleasure to sit down to a bowl of porridge, bacon and eggs and even pancakes after the monotonous rolls and coffee, and occasional jam, of the continent.

That evening I sat in a comfortable arm-chair before a cheerful fire, in a cozy dormitory study of Lincoln College, Oxford. I was the guest of a California friend, an undergraduate of the University. It was a bit of luxury that I thought I had well earned and I looked forward with pleasure to a week of rest and comfort, which I badly needed after my illness in Paris. I felt that such a rest would put me in proper physical trim for resuming my travels.

For seven days I led the life of a plutocrat. I could hardly believe it. I arose each morning at nine o'clock and climbed into a tub of hot water, prepared by a servant; then (among other articles) into a pair of shoes polished by the same individual. After breakfast, served in my room, I would take a stroll about the college grounds with an English cap on my head, a brier pipe in my mouth and a walking stick in my hand.

Oxford is an ideal place in which to take the rest cure. Beside its academic atmosphere, which one feels immediately, the historic buildings of the several colleges with their graceful spires and sacred associations, the miles of green turf fields for sport and the winding river languidly pursuing its course among the drooping elms, made a scene to which it is easy to become passionately attached, and one in which I lost myself, or rather found myself, completely. Such environment would cure the most helpless invalid. It made a new being of me.

In the afternoon I would watch a game of football, hockey or tennis. I was much impressed by the universality of sport in England, and especially at Oxford. All the students take part in some form of athletics, and the University has provided dozens of hockey, cricket and football fields in addition to many boat houses and facilities for rowing and water sports. I attended the four hundredth meeting of the Davenant Society, a literary organisation of Lincoln College undergraduates, and heard a paper read by the Rev. Dr. Carlyle on William Morris. The members of the society took part in a free discussion of the subject afterwards and many admirable impromptu speeches were made. I heard a debate on Socialism in the Oxford Union, one of the speakers for the negative being a Hindu student. It was the close of the University term and several of the students were giving celebrations in their rooms. I was a guest at one of these at which the most striking feature was—to me—the large number of empty bottles that were lined up in rows on the centre-table at the close of the function. I was told that this room had been occupied by John Wesley, founder of the Methodist Society, when he was an Oxford undergraduate!

In the chapel of Magdalen College I heard the famous male choir, probably the best in England. I called, one afternoon, on the Cowley fathers—or Society of Saint John the Evangelist, a monastic order of the Church of England—at their mother house in Cowley, a suburb of Oxford. I visited the village of Iffley and saw the ancient church of Saint Mary the Virgin. This edifice is one of the few Norman churches in England, and is a typical example of the twelfth-century village church. I got an insight into English home life by making a trip to Shipton-under-Wychwood to visit relatives of a friend in America. Shipton-under-Wychwood is a representative English village of about eight hundred souls, with an ancient parish church, squire's court and park, and many quaint old English homes. My host lived in a substantial old house with the proper quota of servants. Everything was carried on with, what seemed to an American, an undue amount of ceremony. These good people shunned all modern conveniences, such as telephones, electric lights, and up-to-date plumbing appliances, considering them vulgar and commonplace.

My high living continued. My Oxford friend accompanied me to London and we both registered at the Inns of Court on Holborn street. This hotel, facing Lincoln Inn Fields, was a pleasant, moderate-priced establishment, and was the only hostelry in which I had stayed which could be ranked as first-class. Of course, I was living beyond my means, but it was out of the question for me to drag my Oxford friend down to my usual plane of living.

I once came across an American from the Middle West travelling in Europe and asked him if he had been to London. He replied that he had, and when I enquired how he liked the National Gallery he looked at me with the intelligence of a cow. I then ventured a query about Saint Paul's Cathedral—and he told me that he had not seen it. I thought I was on a safe footing when I asked for his impressions of Westminster Abbey and Houses of Parliament. He had missed these also.

"What did you see?" I asked.

"Oh, I spent about an hour walking up and down the main street, looking in the store windows."

If this was all there is to "seeing" a European city, why not stay at home on the farm?

My collegiate friend and I had our hands full with the many places we mapped out, and we were far from satisfied when we had leisurely taken them all in. The National, Tate and Wallace Galleries were on our list. We spent hours in the British Museum. We visited both the Abbey and Saint Paul's several times, as well as countless other churches. We saw the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace, Westminster Cathedral, Hyde Park and so forth. At night we visited the various halls and theatres and on Sundays went to church in the morning and evening, and in the afternoon attended the concerts given under the auspices of the Sunday Concert Society by the Queen's Hall Orchestra.

My money was getting low. Something had to happen—and happen soon. My Oxonian friend left for St. Malo, in northern France, to spend a month studying French. I decided to take stock and find how much money I had. Counting all my cash I found that I had but thirty-five dollars. Over five thousand miles from home, out of work, with no friends and only thirty-five dollars—it meant I was broke. Work in England under normal conditions would be hardly profitable, for I could at best earn only about twenty shillings a week. At this time work was impossible. A great coal strike was on and every line of business was in a very disorganised state, due to the consequent fuel famine. Trains were running intermittently. Factories were closed and the country was full of the starving and the unemployed. I had in mind purchasing a steerage ticket for America or obtaining a job as waiter or deckhand on a trans-Atlantic liner.

church

I drifted with the crowds along the Strand. I continued down Holborn Street and came to Ludgate Circus, where I went into the office of Thomas Cook and Son. There I found a letter from Norway. It was from Mr. Scott Turner, manager of the Arctic Coal Company, offering me a position in Tromso, Norway, and on the island of West Spitzbergen, at one hundred dollars a month and expenses.

This letter was the opening sentence in a volume of adventure.

I had foreseen that my funds would soon run out, and, while in Italy, had written several letters to a number of business concerns asking for work. One of these was to Mr. Scott Turner, whom I had known years ago in Seattle and of whose whereabouts I had lost track. On receipt of Turner's address from my brother in America, I wrote him for a job, telling him that I was working my way around the world, and that being a poor man there was little luxury in it. In his reply he said that he thought he could make use of a man of about my size and shape, and he outlined a most bewildering list of duties. I was to spend two months in Tromso arranging the company's files, running errands and doing general office work. On the first of June I was to sail for Spitzbergen at the expense of the company, where I was to have charge of the mine office, operate the store, look after the supplies in four warehouses and have charge of the commissary department, which fed two hundred and fifty men. Turner stated that these duties would take up about fifteen hours each day, and that if I was not needed in the mine I could have the rest of the time to myself.

After reading Turner's letter I at once looked up Tromso and Spitzbergen on a map. Tromso I found to be three hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle, or four hundred miles farther north than Nome; while Spitzbergen was about one thousand miles from the North Pole. The Arctic Coal Company was an American corporation mining coal on the island of West Spitzbergen and its purchasing office was in Tromso.

Fifteen minutes after reading this letter I was on my way to the Arctic Circle—in a third-class coach going to Newcastle. En route I stopped off for a few days' visit with an uncle of mine, the vicar of the English church in a small village called Needham Market. He had not seen me since I was an infant in Canada, and I suppose that he was curious to see what sort of a specimen his tramp nephew would prove to be. I was, at the same time, anxious to make a good impression on the old gentleman, whom I knew to be full of aristocratic British ideas.

England turned out to be a land in which I was destined to live in luxury. That evening I sat at the vicarage dining table and put away a thoroughly good meal, which included wine and which was served with all the ceremony that an English household could muster. I had no evening clothes. My uncle thoughtfully dispensed with such garments himself out of consideration for me. I found him to be a high Churchman, a staunch Conservative and a man who gave the impression that he disliked everything American. He considered us a crude lot, with a few virtues but somewhat vulgar and best tolerated at a distance. The Monroe Doctrine was to him like a red rag to a bull. He argued that the population of America was made up of half castes through inter-marriage with negroes, and that our climate was so hot that it produced a lazy race of people. I laughed at such statements and tried to accept his hospitality in as gracious a manner as I could.

He lent me his bicycle and I rode to the neighbouring village of Stowmarket. Here I visited the parish church, obtaining the key of the edifice from the bar-keeper across the road. This obliging person was very courteous and kindly. He conducted me through the church, discoursing on its points of interest and displaying great pride in the building. On the walls of his saloon, behind the bar, were pictures of the church choir and building. He gave me a notice with a list of Lenten services. I bought a drink.

Upon leaving my uncle's he very kindly offered me some money to help defray the expenses of my trip. I did not, however, accept this well-intended assistance.

The road passes through many interesting places from Needham to Newcastle, and I regretted very much that I was compelled to get nothing but a train-window glimpse of the great cathedrals at Ely, Lincoln, York and Durham. After lodging at Newcastle in a cheap hotel I sailed for Norway as a steerage passenger on the Jupiter, a small steamer belonging to a Norwegian company with the overpowering name of Det Nordenfjeldske Dampskilsselskab. My steerage ticket cost me twenty-five dollars, which left but three dollars to see me through to my destination. I soon discovered that the price of this ticket did not include meals. The journey from Newcastle to Tromso requires seven days, and I was therefore confronted with the problem of stretching three dollars over a period of one week. With this sum I had to buy food from the steerage steward. When it gave out I had to fast.

There are few attractive features connected with Norwegian steerage accommodations, which rival those of Italian ships in their lack of conveniences. But ups and downs were a part of the game, and I recalled with pleasure—and regret—the good meals and beds I had enjoyed during my sojourn in England.

The first morning out, Stavenger, on the coast of southern Norway, hove in sight amid a cluster of snow-clad hills. We had little time for this small town, and after an hour's stop the Jupiter turned her nose towards the north and resumed her journey. At Bergen I tramped down the gangway with my fellow passengers of the steerage and spent a few hours, during the time our ship was in the harbour, roaming the streets. I found my way in and out among the alleys of the fishy-smelling fish markets and ate some food which I bought, taking advantage of land prices. In Trondhjem I made my way through a snow storm to the Cathedral, returning to the ship by way of the main street, where I laid in a supply of cheese and bread.

The trip along the Norwegian coast is a beautiful one, and our boat slowly wound through the maze of narrow channels and picturesque fjords. For a few hours we would be hemmed in by an endless number of little snow-covered isles on one side, with the abrupt and rugged cliffs of the Norwegian mainland on the other. In a short time we would steam out into the open ocean. The first morning out from Trondhjem we crossed the Arctic Circle. A feeling of intense loneliness came over me and I almost imagined that I was going to another world. The snow-covered mountains and islands, the sharpness of the cold, the absence of any habitations along the coast, the incessant and silent plunging of the ship, the dreary surroundings of the steerage and the emptiness of my stomach, all filled me with the most lonely and forlorn thoughts. Where was I going and what put it into my head to wander to this out-of-the-way corner of the earth?

The problem of food had become a serious one. My money had given out and the supply of provisions I had laid in at Trondhjem had all been eaten. The steerage steward had taken a dislike to me, for I had rebelled at the small portions he dealt out in the beginning of the trip, when I had money with which to pay. I tried to make up to him in the hope of a "handout," but instead I nearly got a "kick-out." There was nothing to do but fast until I reached my journey's end.

Late one afternoon, couched in the centre of a vast desert of snow, a small village appeared. Our boat directed her nose towards this dreary and lonesome-looking settlement, and in a short time was alongside the pier. It was Tromso. How glad I was! As soon as the lines were tied and the ship made fast I descended the gangway and set out to find my friend Turner. I didn't have a cent of money and hadn't eaten for two days.

CHAPTER XVIII

A RESIDENT OF THE ARCTIC ZONE

On alighting from the ship I took a deep breath of the fishy atmosphere and proceeded up the street lugging my two bags. I was now three hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle, and the island town of Tromso was buried in eight feet of snow. I had walked barely ten yards when my feet flew out from under me and I came down with a fearful thud. My two grips fell from my hands and slid about on the slippery snow of the packed street like drops of quicksilver. I gathered my meagre belongings together and started again. Ten yards more—and I fell in the same undignified manner. I thought the eight thousand inhabitants of Tromso were gazing at me, as the crowds on the sidewalks congregated to see the drunken foreigner perform. I tried again to make some progress, but it seemed impossible for me to keep my equilibrium. I nearly became discouraged. A waxed floor is a ploughed field compared to the winter smoothness of a Tromso street.

I found Turner in his room at the Grand Hotel and we were very glad to see one another, for we had not seen each other for four years. To meet up here in the frozen north made a reunion of two Americans especially cordial.

A Mr. Gilson of Pennsylvania, superintendent of the Arctic Coal Company, was Turner's roommate, and, with my advent, the foreign population of Tromso was raised to three. This scarcity of aliens made us conspicuous members of the community and a great source of curiosity. We three comprised the American staff of the company; and we all lived at the Grand Hotel. The hotel was a three-story frame building buried up to the window sills of the first floor in snow. It was conducted on purely Norwegian lines.

The average inhabitant of Tromso lives on an incessant diet of fish and boiled potatoes, with an occasional piece of cheese or canned "salt horse." Breakfast is almost an unknown meal, and when it does take place it is seldom held earlier than ten o'clock. Dinner follows at two-thirty in the afternoon and supper at nine in the evening. This is a most distressing schedule when one wishes to keep office hours and accomplish some work during the day. By a special arrangement with the proprietor of the hotel we were able to have our breakfast served in our rooms each morning at half-past eight. Cheese and bread being the usual diet, we could not expect any great variety of food at this meal. On their arrival several months ago, Turner had expressed a wish for soft boiled eggs and Gilson for fried eggs, and these, accompanied with bread and coffee, had been the menu of the initial meal of the day ever since. When I arrived there must have been great confusion in the kitchen among the cooks and waiters to determine what odd notions I might have about eating. However, without consulting me, the maid appeared on my first morning with one soft boiled egg and one fried egg, and this was my assortment for breakfast every day of my month's stay in the hotel.

Bath-tubs seem to be a rarity in Norway, and the town of Tromso had the distinction of possessing one bath house. Our hotel and all private houses, with few exceptions, did not contain a tub. To add to this scarcity, the one bath house only opened its doors to bathers on one day of the week. We American residents were three of its most regular patrons. Bathing in a wash-basin is an unsatisfactory process as well as an extremely awkward one. However, we were forced to this means of cleansing ourselves during the interval that the bath-tubs of the village reposed behind closed doors.

The morning after my arrival I reported for work at the company's office. I was at first assigned to arranging and card indexing a tangled pile of machinery catalogues and supply hand-books. I next prepared a systematic card index of all the articles of merchandise that the company had purchased during the previous years of its existence. I finally became sufficiently familiar with the business to assist in the buying of the food and mining supplies for the summer season at the mine.

The office was a crowded little space on the ground floor of a frame building on the main street of Tromso, and consisted of three small rooms. In addition to the three Americans the staff included a chief clerk and an office boy. The chief clerk was a Norwegian who had served as an American soldier in the Philippines and who spoke excellent English. He was an invaluable man and acted as the channel through which all business of the office was transacted, for the Americans, not knowing Norwegian, had to have him translate all letters and contracts and interpret all conversations. The office boy was a young native who had acquired a fair smattering of English. Although an industrious lad he was frequently drawn from his work in amazement at what he considered the outlandish and freakish mannerisms of the Americans.

The office was busy buying supplies for the summer and coming winter seasons at the mine on Spitzbergen, making contracts for the sale of coal, chartering ships and hiring men as miners and labourers.

Spitzbergen is entirely frozen in eight months of the year, and the mine had an open season, or time when the coal could be shipped out, of four months. It was necessary to have a winter crew and a summer crew. The winter men, who numbered about one hundred, were now on the island and were out of touch with the world, with the exception of communication by means of a wireless station operated by the Norwegian government. This crew did nothing but mine, and the coal was placed in a stock pile alongside of the wharf. A new force of two hundred men was taken to the mine at the opening of the summer season and the huge task of shipping out the coal mined during the winter was undertaken.

The company chartered all its eight boats with the exception of one, the William D. Munroe, which it owned. This ship was in dry-dock undergoing a thorough and expensive overhauling under the numerous and many unnecessary instructions from officials and inspectors of the Norwegian government. The company chartered the other seven tramp steamers at the rate of one hundred and twenty-five dollars a day, procuring them through ship brokers in London and Newcastle.

The coal mined was bituminous with a low percentage of ash and was considered exceptionally good fuel for steamers. The demand for it much exceeded the supply, the production at this time being only twenty-five thousand tons a year, and there was a good market for it at five and six dollars a ton delivered. The larger part of the output was sold to Norwegian steamship companies, most of it being consigned to Christiania, Christiansund, Bergen and Trondhjem. Several cargoes were despatched to Archangel, on the White Sea, for a Russian concern.

Aside from business I found much time to devote to the social life of Tromso. On the second evening after my arrival I received an invitation to attend a ski-ing party of young men and women. It was the plan to ski over the hills of the island back of Tromso to a small cabin about five miles distant, and there cook a meal over a log fire. I knew nothing about ski-ing and had never seen a pair of ski. When one of my Norwegian acquaintances offered to lend me a pair I was puzzled to know how any one could get over the snow with such fence rails strapped to his feet. I was perfectly willing to learn. I donned the two unfamiliar slats and, assisted by two pretty Norwegian women, who did not understand English, started out on the five-mile trip to the cabin. Ten miles was a long distance for a novice. The party numbered about twenty boys and girls, and they were soon far in the lead while my two female aides tussled with me in the rear. We proceeded smoothly enough (the arms of the two girls around my waist and mine, of course, around theirs) until we came to the first hill. This incline looked about a thousand miles long and almost vertically steep. My escorts were expert at the sport, but they did not have sufficient strength to prevent my causing a catastrophe. We started down the hill and in a few seconds were going at the speed of an express train. I never expected to reach the bottom in anything approaching a dignified position. About fifty yards of such travelling was all I could stand, and then the spill took place. I wasn't man enough to fall by myself, but had to drag the poor girls down with me. The three of us rolled down the hill together and landed, half buried in the snow, in the most undignified pile I ever was in. The party ahead returned to untangle and dig us out. It was a most intimate affair. One young woman was almost completely concealed, being half submerged in the snow, while I was so irregularly sprawled out on top of her that she had no possible means of being resurrected until I was removed. I, in turn, was pinned down—for the other young woman had one of her nether limbs so securely entwined around my neck that I felt roped to the earth. She, at the same time, was struggling in a vain effort to dislodge one of her ski from the snow where it had penetrated several feet. The three of us were securely anchored, and if we had tried to attain our relative positions by a deliberate plan we could not have been so successful.

home

summer

With the assistance of the rest of the party we were finally unravelled. I arose only to repeat the performance, not with the same resultant intimacy and proximity as in my first experience, however, for the young women arranged to keep at a certain distance and I was allowed to navigate by myself. My courage was not much slackened by the first unhappy incident, for I tackled each hill as it came, although I knew that I should come to grief in the shape of a tangled mass at the bottom. I made a jolly good fool of myself, I know, and at each attempt swept everything before me, dragging down Norwegian widows, massage artists, fishermen's daughters—and all within arms' reach as I swooped by. This performance continued until we arrived at the cabin.

Soon we were all refreshed by coffee and sandwiches which the girls prepared and we sat around the big log fire singing and smoking. Everybody smoked, women and all, for it is a common thing for the fair sex to use cigarettes in Norway. I dreaded to see the time approach for us to depart, for I knew that our return home would be a repetition of our eventful journey to the cabin. It was two o'clock in the morning and the sun was rising on the distant horizon—and I thought I might show signs of improvement when assisted by daylight. We started back, the leaders of the party very judiciously selecting a course which was not so hilly and which portended a more peaceful journey. It is a rather simple matter to glide along on the level, and the way we returned didn't prove nearly so disastrous as the way we came. I managed to conduct myself fairly well, for the time being.

When we reached the edge of the town, where the hard packed road which led down hill to the main street begins, we all took off our ski and converted them into small sleds by sitting on them and riding into the village. I decided to try this new method. We all strung out at intervals of about twenty feet and started from the summit on a mile shoot into the heart of the town. I managed to begin all right. I had only gone a few yards, however, when the ski beneath me became unmanageable and I could not steer them. We had all acquired a terrific speed. I was sandwiched in between two young women, one sliding a few feet in front of me and the other several paces in the rear, I reached a curve in the road! I lost my ski and continued sliding down the cold and hard road on the seat of my trousers. The next minute over I turned and grabbed the first object with which I came in contact. It was the girl behind me who had overtaken me. I clung to her like a leech and the two of us rolled over for several yards and finally landed in a heap on the side of the road. Another intimate pile. She had lost her ski; her skirts were clustered around her neck; my hat had disappeared—and we lay in the gutter like two pairs of scissors. My feminine associate had her feet extended towards the summit of the hill and mine were pointing towards the town below. We unwound. I got up and assisted her to her feet. We walked the rest of the way to the village.

To be the cause of so much human wreckage was enough to discourage me. However, I made up my mind to persist, for ski-ing was the only outdoor sport in this part of the world. One of the young women condoled with me when she learned that ski-ing was not in vogue in my country, for she thought it was a pity that we had no outdoor sports. During two-thirds of the year there is not a wheeled vehicle to be seen in Tromso, all transportation being conducted on sleds and the majority of the inhabitants spending much of their time on ski. Even the five-year-olds are expert at this method of locomotion. I, therefore, decided to learn, in spite of all my reverses, and in a few weeks became so proficient that I welcomed hills and often complained because they were not steep enough.

The company bought a house on the hill and we three Americans moved out of the hotel into a home of our own. Norwegian houses are often arranged in a most inconvenient manner. The second floor seldom contains a hallway, and in order to go from one bed room to another, it is necessary to pass through the private apartment of another member of the household. Very frequently the maid's room is situated in one end of the house, and in order to reach her bed-chamber she has to walk through all the bedrooms. Between all rooms there is a sort of sill about two inches high running the width of the opening upon which the door swings. One would think that the occupants of such houses would become accustomed to these obstructions and learn to step over them. But this is not the case, for Norwegians are continually falling over the sills. On one occasion an officer in the Norwegian army, who had just completed a call on us, was making his ceremonious and prolonged farewell. With each deep bow he would step back towards the door. He receded until he toppled over backwards on one of these senseless sills. The poor chap gathered himself together and left without saying a word. He was the most embarrassed man I ever saw.

Our house was destitute of furniture, and, as there was not much of a line of this commodity in town, we spent many evenings as carpenters and painters, making tables, beds and chairs with lumber we purchased from a local merchant. Now that we were in our own home we re-arranged our mode of living by changing our hours of eating and sleeping. We adopted a menu which conformed more nearly to what Americans usually eat. We also did a little entertaining. We decorated the walls of our house with pictures we cut from the covers of American magazines and hung up curtains which we imported from England.

The most elaborate social function I had the pleasure of attending was a house dance given at the home of one of the doctors of the town. My two American friends and I arrived at the party at about nine o'clock. The other guests were all present. As we entered the host and hostess were introducing each one in turn to the others who were lined up in a row at one end of the room. It is the custom to address a man by prefixing his vocation to his name, and this manner of designating each one was used during the introductions. Engineer Hansen, Coppersmith Johnsen and Fisherman Olsen were all introduced in this way. The three Americans were simply addressed as "Mister."

It was remarkable to notice the number of people who could speak good English in Tromso. A few of them had acquired their knowledge by visits to England, but the majority had learned the language in the schools of the town. I met one woman who had never been south of the Arctic Circle who spoke English almost perfectly. There were a number at the doctor's dance who spoke the language fluently.

After every one was thoroughly introduced, folding doors were opened, and on tables in the adjoining room stood the most sumptuous supper any man ever saw. The food was served in buffet fashion, and each one was requested to help himself to the endless variety of eatables spread before us. Chicken, fish, sandwiches, salads, cakes and fruits were piled on this table in such abundance that it looked like the assemblage of a dozen Christmas dinners. Liquid cheer was so plentiful that one almost believed all the booze in town was concentrated in this one room. Every conceivable form of liquor was on exhibition, and it would be a most fastidious drinker who could not find something to suit his taste. Beer, several kinds of wine, punch, whiskey and even gin were arrayed before us like the choice liquors in a millionaire brewer's cellar.

The sight of this bountiful feast nearly paralysed me. I at first thought it was a dream, and it took several minutes before I was aware that it was real food and drink. To come up from the steerage to such a grand meal as this was nothing short of a miracle. I dived in and—with the rest of the guests—ate heartily.

The Norwegians confine themselves to square dances, somewhat similar to the Lancers, and to the waltz. This last dance is very much like the American step, with much more of a hop to it and a larger interval between the man and his partner. I insisted on teaching several of the women to two-step. They were very pleased with it, but had difficulty in becoming accustomed to such proximity to their partner. One woman became very fond of this near feature, but insisted on my resuming a distant position as we passed her husband, who was seated at one end of the room. Those who didn't care to dance played cards and smoked. The dainty way in which the women handled their cigarettes killed any prejudice I had nourished about the feminine use of tobacco.

One meal during an evening is evidently not considered sufficient in Norway, for at four in the morning the same folding doors were opened and another array of refreshments lay spread before us. The second assortment was by no means the scraps of the previous meal. It was an entirely new lot of a different variety, and consisted of pudding, cake and coffee. All the participants had danced so diligently that they had acquired new appetites, and the food was all consumed as though it were the only lot of refreshments served at the party. This second feast was the customary conclusion of Tromso social functions. Farewells followed, and the guests departed. We Americans arrived home at six o'clock, changed our clothes, concluded that it was useless to go to bed and went directly to the office for the day's work. The dancing party was a great success, and I could easily have imagined it a New York affair instead of an Arctic Zone function.

It was now only a couple of weeks before the company's boat, Munroe, was scheduled to make its initial trip to the mine on Spitzbergen. The office staff had an immense amount of work to dispose of in this time. Men from all parts of Norway were slowly drifting into Tromso to sign contracts for summer employment. Supplies were being rushed in. A new propeller shaft for the Munroe was en route from England. Cabin fixtures were being installed and many matters were being adjusted to comply with the maritime regulations of the Norwegian government before the ship would be permitted to leave port.

The last week several American engineers and their wives began to arrive. Turner had made arrangements for these experienced men, and they had signed contracts with the company for a period of two years. A score of English miners, who had been engaged through a British labour bureau, also arrived.

With the influx of Norwegian miners and labourers the streets of Tromso were thronged with drunken, fishy and rough-looking men, and the sailing of the Munroe for the far North was the most discussed topic in town.

Two days before the scheduled time for her departure the Munroe was launched from the dry-dock and crews were kept busy loading her with supplies of provisions and other merchandise. Twenty men were put to work building bunks in the hatchways for the miners, and the final touches were rushed to completion.

At midnight on the 25th of May everything was ready. About one hundred Norwegian peasants filed up the gangway and boarded the ship. They were the most forlorn set of adults I ever saw. I should have said one hundred drunks—for I don't believe that there was one entirely sober man among them. Some were completely out as the result of a week's intoxication and had to be packed aboard like sacks of bran. Fifty were conducted from the town jail by several policemen, assisted by Superintendent Gilson and myself. They had been locked up on account of disorderly conduct and had been in prison awaiting the departure of the Munroe.

At four o'clock in the morning every one was aboard, and the little ship, loaded to her water line and carrying a hundred helpless inebriates, turned her bow towards the North Pole and started on her way.

CHAPTER XIX

MINING UNDER THE MIDNIGHT SUN

The steamer Munroe was the first boat this year to penetrate the frozen north, and her departure was looked upon as an event of great importance, for an early season trip was one full of uncertainties. The condition of the sea in the vicinity of North Cape and Spitzbergen was unknown until reported by the first vessel in. A severe winter would mean a difficult voyage, while a mild season would render the passage comparatively easy. The trip from Tromso to Advent Bay, where the company's mines are located, had varied in length, in past years, from three days to five weeks, depending on the amount of ice surrounding the island of West Spitzbergen. We had sailed, therefore, fully provided with supplies for the limit of the time required to make the journey. The Munroe was completely equipped for Arctic Ocean travel, and had been built to meet all conditions encountered in the seas of the Far North. She was a small steamer, being only about two hundred feet long, and resting very low in the water—her stern deck being but four feet above the surface when loaded to her full capacity. She had been especially designed for navigation in the icy seas of this region. Attached to her main mast was a "crow's nest," a sort of barrel-shaped device which looked like a preacher's pulpit. From this point one of the crew constantly kept watch for icebergs and pieces of float ice. Her bow was re-enforced with a solid mass of hard oak, fourteen feet thick, which was covered with a heavy band of steel. By reason of this solid bow she was equipped so that she could ram the ice and loosen large chunks which would float away. Her crew comprised experienced Arctic sailors and her captain was a kind-hearted old Norwegian who had served as skipper on ships of the northern seas for twenty years. In addition the steamer was well provided with sixteen large life-saving boats, each with a capacity of fifteen passengers.

It was bitterly cold the morning we left Tromso, and the trip through the narrow fjords leading to the open sea was calm and peaceful. The early morning hours seemed to lend a stillness to our departure which made one feel as though he were attending a funeral. At noon we were well out to sea, travelling directly north, and, with the exception of the intense cold, there was nothing to indicate that we were not on an ordinary ocean voyage in the temperate zone.