“No, you will not, but perhaps I can help you out. I am Captain Foster, of the Princess Mary, and I clear in the morning for Venice.”
“Oh, captain,” cried Sidney eagerly, “can you take us?”
“Well, I don’t carry passengers; I have no place for ’em; but I’d do anything I could to help Americans to get home. I fancy you are Americans?”
“Yes, we are,” replied Sidney, “and our mother is waiting in New York for us.”
Captain Foster looked at the boys curiously. “If I may be so bold,” he said, “you are pretty young to be in a country like this alone, and you look as though you had traveled some.”
“I should say we had traveled some,” broke in Raymond, “we came over the Caucasus.”
“By the Dariel Pass, in a motor-car, I fancy,” said the captain.
“Not much! We hoofed it, by way of Bezheeta to Tiflis.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you came over that trail on foot at this time of year?” And the captain looked at the boys in amazement.
“We sure did,” replied Raymond, “every step of the way. Don’t those shoes look like it?”