ious of a cry, continuous and piercing. A cry unique and
monotonous, always resembling itself. It is the clamor of Salonika."

Every one who has visited the East, where every one lives in the
streets, knows the sound. It is like the murmur of a stage mob. Imagine,
then, that "clamor of Salonika" increased by the rumble and roar over
the huge paving-stones of thousands of giant motor-trucks; by the beat
of the iron-shod hoofs of cavalry, the iron-shod boots of men marching
in squads, companies, regiments, the shrieks of peasants herding flocks
of sheep, goats, turkeys, cattle; the shouts of bootblacks, boatmen,
sweetmeat venders; newsboys crying the names of Greek papers that sound
like "Hi hippi hippi hi," "Teyang Teyang Teyah"; by the tin horns of
the trolley-cars, the sirens of automobiles, the warning whistles of
steamers, of steam-launches, of donkey-engines; the creaking of cordage
and chains on cargo-hoists, and by the voices of 300,000 men speaking
different languages, and each, that he may be heard above it, adding to
the tumult. For once the alarmist was right. There were no rooms in any
hotel. Early in the rush John McCutcheon, William G. Shepherd, John
Bass, and James Hare had taken the quarters left vacant by the Austrian
Club in the Hotel Olympus. The room was vast and overlooked the
principal square of the city, where every Salonikan met to talk, and the
only landing-place on the quay. From the balcony you could photograph,
as it made fast, not forty feet from you, every cutter, gig, and launch
of every war-ship. The late Austrian Club became the headquarters for
lost and strayed Americans. For four nights, before I secured a room to
myself by buying the hotel, I slept on the sofa. It was two feet too
short, but I was very fortunate.

Outside, in the open halls on cots, were English, French, Greek, and
Serbian officers. The place looked like a military hospital. The main
salon, gilded and bemirrored, had lost its identity. At the end
overlooking the water-front were Serbian ladies taking tea; in the
centre of the salon at the piano a little Greek girl taking a music
lesson; and at the other end, on cots, British officers from the
trenches and Serbian officers who had escaped through the snows of
Albania, their muddy boots, uniforms, and swords flung on the floor,
slept the drugged sleep of exhaustion.

Meals were a continuous performance and interlocked. Except at midnight,
dining-rooms, cafes, and resta