And so the night was alive with brilliant electric light signals and wild hootings from the steam siren, and he found them at last, all honour to him for a kindly sailor-man, and the Finnish ships were warned and went back to Sweden.
But no matter how sorry one is for the sufferings of others, the feeling does not in any way tend to lessen one's own private woes. Rather are they deepened because sympathy and help is not so easily come by when men's thoughts are occupied by more—to them more—important matters. And so I could not go to sleep because of my anxiety about my little dog. Only for the moment did the taking of the men and my pity for them drive the thought of his predicament from my mind.
We were nearing Sweden, every moment was bringing us closer, and as yet I had made no arrangements for his safety. He lay curled up on the seat, hiding his little snub nose and his little white paws with his bushy tail, for the autumn night was chilly, and I lay fearing a prison for him too, when he would think his mistress whom he had trusted had failed him. All the crew were so excited over the kidnapping of the men that my meditated nefarious transaction was thrust into the background. It was hopeless to think that any one of them would give ear to the woes of a little dog, so at last, very reluctantly, I gave him, much to his surprise, a sulphonal tablet. I dozed a little and when by my watch it was four o'clock Buchanan was as lively as a cricket. Sulphonal did not seem to have affected him in any way. I gave him another, and he said it was extremely nasty and he was surprised at my conduct, but otherwise it made no difference to him.
In the grey of the early morning we drew up to the wharf and were told to get all our belongings on to the lower deck for the Customs to examine them, and Buchanan was as cheerful and as wide awake as if he had not swallowed two sulphonal tablets. With a sinking heart I gave him another, put him in his basket and, carrying it down to the appointed place, threw a rug over it and piled my two suit-cases on top of it. How thankful I was there was such a noisy crowd, going over and over again in many tongues the events of the night. They wrangled too about their luggage and about their places, and above all their din I could hear poor little James Buchanan whining and whimpering and asking why his mistress was treating him so badly.
Then came the Customs officer and my heart stood still. He poked an investigatory hand into my suit-case and asked me—I understood him quite well—to show him what was underneath. I could hear Buchanan if he could not, and I pretended that I thought he wanted to know what was at the bottom of my suit-case and I turned over the things again and again. He grew impatient, but luckily so did all the people round, and as a woman dragged him away by force to look at her things so that she could get them ashore I noticed with immense relief that the sailors were beginning to take the things to the wharf. Luckily I had taken care the night before to get some Swedish money—I was taking no chances—and a little palm oil made that sailor prompt to attend to my wants. Blessings on the confusion that reigned around! Two minutes later on Swedish soil I was piling my gear on a little hand-cart with a lot of luggage belonging to the people with whom I had come across Finland and it was bound to the railway station.
“You have left your umbrella,” cried the violinist.
“I don't care,” said I. I had lost my only remaining hat for that matter, goodness knows what had become of it, but I was not going to put myself within range of those Customs men again. What did I care about appearances! I had passed the very worst milestone on my journey when I got James Buchanan into Sweden; I had awakened from the nightmare that had haunted me ever since I had taken my ticket in Petrograd, and I breathed freely.
At the railway station we left our luggage, but I got Buchanan's basket, and we all went across the road to a restaurant just waking to business, for we badly wanted breakfast. I loved those passengers. I shall always think of them with gratitude. They were all so kind and sympathetic and the restaurant folks, who were full of the seizing of the Englishmen on a Swedish ship—so are joys and sorrows mingled—must have thought we were a little mad when we all stood round and, before ordering breakfast, opened a basket and let out a pretty little black and white dog.
And then I'm sorry to say we laughed, even I laughed, laughed with relief, though I there and then took a vow never again to drug a dog, for poor little James Buchanan was drunk. He wobbled as he walked, and he could not make up his mind to lie down like a sensible dog and sleep if off; he was conversational and silly and had to be restrained. Poor little James Buchanan! But he was a Swedish dog, and I ate my breakfast with appetite, and we all speculated as to what had become of the Scots Finn who had failed me.
Gefle reminded me of Hans Andersen even more than Finland had done. It had neat streets and neat houses and neat trees and neat and fair-haired women, and Gefle was seething with excitement because the Goathied had been stopped. It was early days then, and Sweden had not become accustomed to the filibustering ways of the German, so every poster had the tale writ large upon it, in every place they were talking about it, and we, the passengers who walked about the streets, were the observed of all observers.