After nearly three weeks had passed without word from the American Legation, the Department of State cabled the American Consul-General at Antwerp that some means of communicating with Mr. Whitlock must be found.  Happening to be in the Consulate when the message was received, I placed my services and my car at the disposal of the Consul-General, who promptly accepted them.  Upon learning of my proposed jaunt into the enemy’s lines, a friend, Mr. M. Manly Whedbee, the director of the Belgian branch of the British-American Tobacco Company, offered to accompany me, and as he is as cool-headed and courageous and companionable as anyone I know, and as he knew as much about driving the car as I did—­for it was obviously impossible to take my Belgian driver—­I was only too glad to have him with me.  It was, indeed, due to Mr. Whedbee’s foresight in taking along a huge quantity of cigarettes for distribution among the soldiers, that we were able to escape from Brussels.  But more of that episode hereafter.

When the Consul-General asked General Dufour, the military governor of Antwerp, to issue us a safe conduct through the Belgian lines, that gruff old soldier at first refused flatly, asserting that as the German outposts had been firing on cars bearing the Red Cross flag, there was no assurance that they would respect one bearing the Stars and Stripes.  The urgency of the matter being explained to him, however, he reluctantly issued the necessary laisser-passer, though intimating quite plainly that our mission would probably end in providing “more work for the undertaker, another little job for the casket-maker,” and that he washed his hands of all responsibility for our fate.  But by two American flags mounted on the windshield, and the explanatory legends “Service Consulaire des Etats-Unis d’Amerique” and “Amerikanischer Consular dienst” painted in staring letters on the hood, we hoped to make it quite clear to Germans and Belgians alike that we were protected by the international game-laws so far as shooting us was concerned.

Now the disappointing thing about our trip was that we didn’t encounter any Uhlans.  Every one had warned us so repeatedly about Uhlans that we fully expected to find them, with their pennoned lances and their square-topped schapskas, lurking behind every hedge, and when they did not come spurring out to intercept us we were greatly disappointed.  It was like making a journey to the polar regions and seeing no Esquimaux.  The smart young cavalry officer who bade us good-bye at the Belgian outposts, warned us to keep our eyes open for them and said, rather mournfully, I thought, that he only hoped they would give us time to explain who we were before they opened fire on us.  “They are such hasty fellows, these Uhlans,” said he, “always shooting first and making inquiries afterward.”  As a matter of fact, the only Uhlan we saw on the entire trip was riding about Brussels in a cab, smoking a large porcelain pipe and with his spurred boots resting comfortably on the cushions.