The ship was still in bond when we awoke this morning, and the cheerful rumor floated round that she sometimes remained in harbor a week before securing the Admiralty’s permission to sail. But life-boat drill was ordered right after breakfast, and Ring Once told me this indicated a speedy departure. My boat is No. 9. It’s a male boat except for one Japanese lady, Mrs. Kajiro Come-here-o, whose husband is also of our select crew. Our drillmaster advised us to wear plenty of heavy clothes till we were out of the danger zone, advice which it is impossible for me to follow. He said five blasts of the whistle would mean we were attacked. I think, however, that if I hear as many as three I’ll start sauntering toward No. 9. At noon we felt the throb of the engines, and forty minutes later we were out of bond and able to buy cigarettes. Before luncheon we were assigned to our permanent seats. Naturally, I am at the captain’s table, with a member of the House of Commons, a member of the House of Lords, a plain English gentleman, a retiring attaché of our embassy in London, his journalistic wife, and M. de M. Hanson of Washington and Peoria, his first name being Mal de Mer. The talk to-day has been of nothing but submarines. The superstitious call attention to the fact that with us is a lady who was on the _Lusitania_ when they torpedoed it. To offset that, however, we carry the president’s youngest son-in-law, and surely there must be a limit to boche ruthlessness. _Monday, September 24. At Sea._ Our ship’s cargo consists principally of titles, rumors and celebrities. Most of the titles belong to members of the British Commission which is coming over to talk food to Mr. Hoover. But there is also a regular baroness, round whom the young bloods swarm like bees. The rumors deal with the course of the ship. Some folks say we are going up Iceland way; others that we are headed straight south; a few that we are taking the Kansas City route, and so on. The sun refuses to come out and tell us the truth, but there’s a shore line in sight on our starboard, and Ring Once tells me it’s the east coast of Ireland. That ought to indicate something about our general direction, but I don’t know what. Of the celebrities, most of them are American journalists and other spies. _Tuesday, September 25. At Sea._ Between eight and nine every morning the bath steward, one Peter James, raps on the door and says: “Your bath is ready, sir.” And you have to get up and go and take it for fear of what he’d think of you if you didn’t. But it’s pretty tough on a man who’s just spent a month in France and formed new habits. I stayed up all night playing bridge. I wanted to be sleepy to-day because I needed a hair cut and the best way to take ’em is unconsciously. The scheme was effective, and I didn’t hear a word the barber said.