"Monsieur Titoff?"—pointing at him by way of enquiry into his identity.
"Niet; Monsieur Belaef."
"Droug Vladimir Ivanovitch Wilkowsky?"
He gave me a long look, smiled, and said under his breath: "Yes, meester."
These were the only English words known by Ivan Stepanovitch Belaef, first mate of the Ukrainian tramp steamer Batoum, from Odessa. And for the moment, at any rate, I was safe among friends.
At about armistice time I was hailed unexpectedly in Port Saïd by C., one of the British officers whom I had left behind on the ferry stage of the Golden Horn. He himself had seen me leave the café, climb the steps leading to the bridge, and fade into the crowd.
A few moments after my disappearance, related C., the Turkish officer called the roll of the prisoners, before taking them to the ferryboat. That roll-call almost led to the premature discovery of my escape; for when the Turk said "À-lan Thòm-as Bott," four people answered.
CHAPTER XII