the neighbor just overhead. Their white walls, for Volo is
a summer resort, were merged in the masses of snow, but in Volo itself
roses were still blooming, and in every garden the trees were heavy with
oranges. They were so many that they hid the green leaves, and against
the walls of purple, blue, and Pompeian red, made wonderful splashes of
a gorgeous gold.

Apparently the captain was winning, for he sent word he would not sail
until midnight, and nine of his passengers dined ashore. We were so long
at table, not because the dinner was good, but because there was a
charcoal brazier in the room, that we missed the moving-pictures. So
the young Italian banker was sent to bargain for a second and special
performance. In the Levant there always is one man who works, and one
man who manages him. A sort of impresario. Even the boatmen and
bootblacks have a manager who arranges the financial details. It is
difficult to buy a newspaper without dealing through a third party. The
moving-picture show, being of importance, had seven managers. The young
Italian, undismayed, faced all of them. He wrangled in Greek, Turkish,
French, and Italian, and they all talked to him at the same time.
Finally the negotiations came to an end, but our ambassador was not
satisfied.

"They got the best of me," he reported to us. "They are going to give
the show over again, and we are to have the services of the pianist, the
orchestra of five, and the lady vocalist. But I had to agree to pay for
the combined entertainment entirely too much."

"How much?" I asked.

"Eight drachmas," he said apologetically, "or, in your money, one dollar
and fifty-two cents."

"Each?" I said.

He exclaimed in horror: "No, divided among the nine of us!"

No wonder Volo is a popular summer resort, even in December.

The next day, after sunset, we saw the snow-capped peak of Mount Olympus
and the lamps of a curving water-front, the long rows of green air ports
that mark the French hospital ships, the cargo lights turned on the red
crosses painted on their sides, the gray, grim battleships of England,
France, Italy, and Greece, and a bustling torpedo-boat took us in tow,
and guided us through the floating mines and into the harbor of
Salonika.

If it is true that happy are the people without a history, then Salonika
should be thoroughly miserable. Some people make history; others have
history thrust upon them. Ever since the world began Salonika has had
histo