Twice again we "attacked" the Britisher. Her turn came. Our boat rose to the surface, and I was once more invited to accompany the captain to the bridge. The British boat lay far away across the inlet. We cruised about watching her. "There she goes." The Britisher sank like a stone in a pond. We continued our course. The two officers peered over the water with young, searching, resolute eyes. Then they took to their binoculars. "There she is," cried the captain, "in a line with the oak tree." I searched for a few minutes in vain. Suddenly I saw her, that is to say, I saw with a great deal of difficulty a small dark rod moving through the water. It came closer; I saw the hatpin shaped trail behind it. Presently with a great swirl and roiling of foam the Britisher pushed herself out of the water. I could see my young captain judging the performance in his eye. Then we played victim two more times and went home. On the way we discussed the submarine patrol. Now there is no more thrilling game in the world than the game of periscope _vs._ periscope. "What do you do?" I asked. "Just what you saw us do to-day. We pack up grub and supplies, beat it out on the high seas and wait for a Fritz to come along. We give him a taste of his own medicine; given him one more enemy to dodge. Suppose a Hun baffles the destroyers, makes off to a lonely spot, and comes to the surface for a breath of air. There isn't a soul in sight, not a stir of smoke on the horizon. Just as Captain Otto, or Von Something is gloating over the last hospital ship he sunk, and thinking what a lovely afternoon it is, a tin fish comes for him like a bullet out of a gun, there comes a thundering pound, a vibration that sends little waves through the water, a great foul swirl, fragments of cork, and it's all over with the Watch on the Rhine. Sometimes Fritz's torpedo meets ours on the way. Then once in a while a destroyer or a patriotic but misguided tramp makes things interesting for a bit. But it's the most wonderful service of all. I wouldn't give it up for anything. We're all going out day after to-morrow. Can't you cable London for permission to go? You'll like it. Don't believe anything you hear about the air getting bad. The principal nuisance when you've been under a long while is the cold; the boat gets as raw and damp as an unoccupied house in winter. Jingo, quarter past one! We'll be late for dinner." Some time after this article had appeared, the captain of an American submarine gave me a copy of the following verses written by a submarine sailor. Poems of this sort, typewritten by some accommodating yeoman, are always being handed round in the Navy; I have seen dozens of them. Would that I knew the author of this picturesque and flavorous ditty, for I would gladly give him the credit he deserves. A SUBMARINE