five months, you had fought nightly engagements with the _cimex
lectularius_, you would understand how vital is an ample supply of
powder. Believe me or not, as you please, but in many parts of Dalmatia
and Albania we were compelled to defend our beds against nocturnal
raiding-parties by raising veritable ramparts of insect-powder, very
much as in Flanders we threw up earthworks against the assaults of the
Hun, while in Monastir the only known way of obtaining sleep is to set
the legs of one's bed in basins filled with kerosene.

Four hours steaming south from Sebenico brought us to Spalato, the
largest city of Dalmatia and one of the most picturesquely situated
towns in the Levant. It owes its name to the great palace (_palatium_)
of Diocletian, within the precincts of which a great part of the old
town is built and around which have sprung up its more modern suburbs.
Cosily ensconced between the stately marble columns which formed the
palace's façade are fruit, tobacco, barber, shoe, and tailor shops,
whose proprietors drive a roaring trade with the sailors from the
international armada assembled in the harbor. A great hall, which had
probably originally been one of the vestibules of the palace, was
occupied by the Knights of Columbus, 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.