"Well, what do you want?" they glowered.
"Many of our men are badly wounded. No bandages, no medicines," the officer at the wheel explained. "We want to go to Red Cross quarters and get supplies. Our men are suffering terribly."
"Let 'em suffer," growled one of the sailors with an oath. "Haven't they made our men suffer? And we had just paroled them—the damned liars."
To this, one of the other sailors cried, "No, tovarish." To us in the car they said, "All right. Pass thru. Hurry."
We swept on up the street, while behind us the fusillade against the telephone station began again.
"Not bad fellows after all, those Red Guards," I interjected.
"Fools! (Doorake). What you call in English 'damn fools', eh?" They laughed hysterically again.
We ran down the French Quay at terrific speed, making a wide detour in order to throw possible pursuers off our track. A sharp turn brought us up before the Engineers' Castle. The big gates opened to let us in and a minute later we were in a salon filled with officers—Russian, French and British. The staff heard the report on the crisis at the telephone station and ordered the immediate dispatch of an armored car and reinforcements. There were a few other details, some words with a Czarist general, and we turned to go.
"Wait a minute," interrupted the general, "let me give you something useful to take back with
