to help me out.  I felt very keenly the suspicion of my brethren, but it was compensated for by the fact that among the ordinary men I had now a hearing on matters of religious interest.  I was rather diffident in approaching them on this subject, since, from the viewpoint of the pietists, I had fallen from grace.  At the end of a month, a loathing of this cheap reputation began to manifest itself.  The man I had beaten became one of my closest friends.  I wrote his letters home to his mother.  A few weeks later, he entrusted me with a more sacred mission—­the writing of his love letters also.

Creedan was a Lancashire man, as angular in speech as in body, and lacking utterly a sense of humour.  As we became acquainted, I began to suggest some improvements, not only in his manner of writing, but in the matter also.  I could not understand how a man could make love with that kind of nature.  One day I suggested the idea of rewriting the entire epistle.  The effect of it was a huge joke to Creedan.  He laughed at the change—­laughed loud and heartily.  The letter, of course, was plastered all over with Irish blarney.  It was such a huge success that Creedan used to come to me and say: 

[Illustration:  Officers of H.M.S. Alexandra, Ashore at Cattaro]

“Hey, Sandy, shoot off one of them things to Mary, will ye?”

And the thing was done.

The summer cruise of 1883 was up the Adriatic.  All the Greek islands were visited.  I knew the historical significance of the places, which made that summer cruise a fairyland to me.

There were incidents in that summer cruise of more than ordinary interest.  One morning, while our ship was anchored in the harbour of Chios, the rock on which our anchor lay was moved by a sudden convulsion:  the mighty cable was snapped, and the ship tossed like a cork by the strain.  The guns were torn from their gearing and the shot and shell torn from their racks.  Men on their feet were flung prostrate, and everything loose scattered over the decks.  The shrill blast of the bugle sounded the “still.”  Such a sound is very seldom blown from the bugles, but when it is, every man stops absolutely still and awaits orders.  The boatswain blew his whistle which was followed with the Captain’s order, “Port watch on deck; every other man to his post!” Five minutes later, on the port side of the ship, I saw the British Consul’s house roll down the side of the hill.  I saw the people flock around a priest who swung his censer and called upon God.  The yawning gulf was there into which a part of the little town had sunk.  A detachment of marines and bluejackets went ashore, not knowing the moment when the earth would open up and swallow them.  The boats were lowered, and orders were given to stand ready to pack the ship to the last item of capacity and carry away the refugees from what we supposed to be a “sinking island.”  Of course, in a crisis like this, the sentiment of religion becomes dominant.  Some of my comrades at once jumped to the conclusion that it was the coming of the Lord, and in the solemnity of the moment I could not resist the suggestion for which I was derided for months: