In the harbor of Honolulu there was a German gunboat, the Geier, that had run there for shelter not long since, and had still left a day or two, under the orders from Washington, to decide whether she would let herself be interned or not.  And outside, beyond the three mile limit that marked the end of American territorial waters, were two good reasons to make the German think well of being interned.  They were two cruisers, squat and ugly and vicious in their gray war paint, that watched the entrance to the harbor as you have seen a cat watching a rat hole.

It was not Britain’s white ensign that they flew, those cruisers.  It was the red sun flag of Japan, one of Britain’s allies against the Hun.  They had their vigil in vain, did those two cruisers.  It was valor’s better part, discretion, that the German captain chose.  Aweel, you could no blame him!  He and his ship would have been blown out of the water so soon as she poked her nose beyond American waters, had he chosen to go out and fight.

I was glad indeed when we came in sight of the Golden Gate once more, and when we were safe ashore in San Francisco.  It had been a nerve-racking voyage in many ways.  My wife and I were torn with anxiety about our boy.  And there were German raiders loose; one or two had, so far, eluded the cordon the British fleet had flung about the world.  One night, soon after we left Honolulu, we were stopped.  We thought it was a British cruiser that stopped us, but she would only ask questions—­answering those we asked was not for her!

But we were ashore at last.  There remained only the trip across the United States to New York and the voyage across the Atlantic home.

CHAPTER III

Now indeed we began to get real news of the war.  We heard of how that little British army had flung itself into the maw of the Hun.  I came to know something of the glories of the retreat from Mons, and of how French and British had turned together at the Marne and had saved Paris.  But, alas, I heard too of how many brave men had died—­had been sacrificed, many and many a man of them, to the failure of Britain to prepare.

That was past and done.  What had been wrong was being mended now.  Better, indeed—­ah, a thousand times better!—­had Britain given heed to Lord Roberts, when he preached the gospel of readiness and prayed his countrymen to prepare for the war that he in his wisdom had foreseen.  But it was easier now to look into the future.

I could see, as all the world was beginning to see, that this war was not like other wars.  Lord Kitchener had said that Britain must make ready for a three year war, and I, for one, believed him when others scoffed, and said he was talking so to make the recruits for his armies come faster to the colors.  I could see that this war might last for years.  And it was then, back in 1914, in the first winter of the war, that I began to warn my friends in America that they might well expect the Hun to drag them into the war before its end.  And I made up my mind that I must beg Americans who would listen to me to prepare.