The Gentleman from Louisiana yielded to his younger and stronger countryman. Some one had spoken of the lack of convoy. “Don’t you think we haven’t a convoy,” the kid remarked. I scanned the sea in all directions and saw nothing but the dark waters. “Where is it?” I inquired. “There’s one on each side of us,” said Young America. “They’re about twenty miles from the ship.” “I should think,” said somebody, “that a very slender submarine might slip in between our side kicks and us and do its regular job.” “No chance,” the youth replied. “The convoy boats are used as decoys. The sub would see them first and spend all its ammunition.” A little later he confided in me that the new American war-ships were two hundred and forty-five thousand horsepower. I had no idea there were that many horses left to measure by. We spotted a shooting star. “That was a big one,” I said. “Big! Do you know the actual size of those things? I got it straight from a professor of astronomy. Listen. They’re as small as a grain of sand.” “Why do they look so big?” “Because they’re so far away and they travel so fast.” Round ten o’clock, beckoning lights ashore told us we were close to safety. But the French gunners remained at their posts two hours longer. The captain’s shouted order, relieving them from duty, was music to our ears. After midnight, however, we turned a complete circle, and at once the deck was alive with rumors. We had been hit, we were going to be hit, we were afraid we would be hit, and so on. The fact was that our pilot from ashore was behind time and we circled round rather than stand still and be an easy target while awaiting him. We were in harbor and anchored at three. Many of us stayed up to see the sun rise over France. It was worth the sleep it cost. They told us we would not dock until six to-night. Before retiring to my cabin for a nap, I heard we had run over a submarine and also that we had not. The latter story lacked heart interest, but had the merit, probably, of truth. Submarines have little regard for traffic laws, but are careful not to stall their engines in the middle of a boulevard. I was peacefully asleep when the French officers came aboard to give us and our passports the Double O. They had to send to my cabin for me. I was ordered to appear at once in the salon de conversation. A barber hater addressed me through his beard and his interpreter: “What is Monsieur Laudanum’s business in France?” I told him I was a correspondent. “For who?” “Mark Sullivan.” “Have you credentials from him?” “No, sir.” “Your passport says you are going to Belgium. Do you know there are no trains to Belgium?” “I know nothing about it.” “Well, there are no trains. How will you go there?” “I’ll try to get a taxi,” I said. “Are you going from here to Paris?” “Yes.” “And where are you going from Paris?” “I don’t know.” “Please explain that answer.” “I will go wherever the authorities permit me to go.”