than hinted at the lamentable state of his ammunition. Once I asked
him why these conditions were not changed and he said:

"The Little Father (the Czar) is far away,"--he shrugged expressively.

Officers told me that tons and tons of ammunition bags did not contain
full weight. Whole ammunition trucks had only a double layer of
powder bags on top, the rest containing sand bags to be used only for
bastions and escarpions, the money flowing into the pockets of the
army contractors. I met General Stoessel at the Casino twice, and
neither time did he impress me as a military genius. A soldier of the
Buller type, he was bluff, hearty, courageous and stupid. His florid
bearded face, thick-set figure and his deep guttural growls reminded
me of a Boer _Dopper_.

Among all the Russians I met at Port Arthur, the most interesting
figure was to me the great battle painter Verestshagin. I am proud to
be able to say that he called me "friend." I happened to be of some
assistance to him in alleviating an attack of malaria. This, with a
similar taste in the arts and literature, soon put us on a friendly
and intimate footing. I have met many men of letters, artists and
statesmen, but never one who impressed me so much with the profundity
of his learning and thought as did Verestshagin, and I am not easily
impressed.

One night we were sitting on the Casino veranda overlooking the
wonderful Harbor of Port Arthur. It was one of those quiet, balmy,
semi-tropical nights for which this part of the world is famous, one
of those crystal, clear, soundless nights, and the silhouettes of
Russia's grim silent battle monsters riding at anchor were sharply