The bell is ringing for the last time. All the
passengers are aboard. The _Astara_ is casting off her warps.
Suddenly there are shouts from the quay. I recognize them as being in
German, the same as I had heard at Tiflis when the train was starting
for Baku.
It is the same man. He is panting, he runs, he cannot run much farther.
The gangway has been drawn ashore, and the steamer is already moving
off. How will this late comer get on board?
Luckily there is a rope out astern which still keeps the _Astara_ near
the quay. The German appears just as two sailors are manoeuvring with
the fender. They each give him a hand and help him on board.
Evidently this fat man is an old hand at this sort of thing, and I
should not be surprised if he did not arrive at his destination.
However, the _Astara_ is under way, her powerful paddles are at work,
and we are soon out of the harbor.
About a quarter of a mile out there is a sort of boiling, agitating the
surface of the sea, and showing some deep trouble in the waters. I was
then near the rail on the starboard quarter, and, smoking my cigar, was
looking at the harbor disappearing behind the point round Cape
Apcheron, while the range of the Caucasus ran up into the western
horizon.
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