s, the place being in charge of a
khaki-clad priest, Father Mullane, of Johnstown, Pa., who twice daily
dispensed true American hospitality, in the form of hot doughnuts and
mugs of steaming coffee, to the blue-jackets from the American ships. As
there was no coal to be had in the town, he made the doughnuts with the
aid of a plumber's blowpipe. In the course of our conversation Father
Mullane mentioned that he was living with the Serbian bishop--at least I
think he was a bishop-of Spalato.

"I suppose he speaks English or French," I remarked.

"He does not," was the answer.

"Then you must have picked up some Serb or Italian," I hazarded.

"Niver a wurrd of thim vulgar tongues do I know," said he.

"Then how do you and the bishop get along?"

"Shure," said Father Mullane, in the rich brogue which is, I imagine,
something of an affectation, "an' what is the use of bein' educated for
the church if we were not able to converse with ease an' fluency in
iligant an' refined Latin?"

When we were leaving Spalato, Father Mullane presented us with a _Bon
Voyage_ package which contained cigarettes, a box of milk chocolate, and
a five-pound tin of gum-drops. The cigarettes we smoked, the chocolate
we ate, but the gum-drops we used for tips right across the Balkans. In
lands whose people have not known the taste of sugar for five years we
found that a handful of gum-drops would accomplish more than money. A
few men with Father Mullane's resource, tact, and sense of humor would
do more than all the diplomats under the roof of the Hotel Crillon to
settle international differences and make the nations understand each
other.

I had been warned by archaeological friends, before I went to Dalmatia,
that the ruins of Salona, which once was the capital of Roman Dalmatia
and the site of the summer palace of Diocletian, would probably
disappoint me. They date from the period of Roman decadence, so my
learned friends explained, and, though following Roman traditions,
frequently show traces of negligence, a fact which is accounted for by
the haste with which the ailing and hypochondriac Emperor sought to
build himself a retreat from the world. Still, the little excursion--for
Salona is only five miles from Spalato--provided much that was worth the
seeing: a partially excavated amphitheater, a long row of stone
sarcophagi lying in a trench, one or two fine gates, and some
beautifully preserved mosaics. I must confess, however, that I