At the staircase to the engine-room, the fireman and swabbers (soutiers) tumble out pell-mell on the metal floor, too exhausted to lift themselves into their hammocks. One has to be careful not to step on someone’s chest or ear. The ship could go down, and these men would not wake from their stupor. Some of the more fastidious ones have taken the trouble to procure a pillow; it is a lump of coal, very hard and dusty; their cheeks press it as softly as if it were of down. With outstretched hands and hesitating feet, the officer makes his round, runs into something, and stops. He passes the watchers, the gunners, the sentries. Wrapped in his cloak, and leaning against the breech, a pointer is observing the flight of the gray water through a port hole. His eyes are wide open, but what can be the reveries of this man who every day and night for so many months has watched the gliding of the water? “Well, Kersullec, it’s tiresome! You are almost through!” whispers the officer. “Yes, Captain. It isn’t that I’m not sleepy, but I’ll hold out the rest of my fifty minutes.” And further on: “You’ve got your eyes open, eh, Le Bihan? You know that yesterday evening they signaled a submarine.... Quite near....” “Let it come, Captain. It will see if Le Bihan sleeps on his watch!” Reaching the ward-room, the officer takes off his cloak, his muffler, his gloves, and puts down his glasses. He nibbles a crust of bread or refreshes himself with a drop of wine. The room is in disorder from the preceding evening, with newspapers left on the red sofas, games on the green tables. One turns the pages mechanically without reading, and shuffles the dominoes and cards without thinking, and before going back to his dull bed, one casts a glance at the betting-book. _22 March._ A happy find, this betting-book, which has banished acrimonious disputes from the _Waldeck-Rousseau_! For since in this war our prophecies about to-morrow or next week have nothing to base themselves upon, what good does it do to argue? If one of us, through some revelation, acquires a definite opinion on future events, he writes it in this notebook with the date, the hour and the place. The page is divided into two columns, one for, and the other against the prediction; the man who bets proposes the stake. The other signs in the right column or the left, and when the bet falls due, the bad prophets pay up as gracefully as possible. There is no opportunity for contradicting, and it is much more amusing than all the discussions. _30 March._ This morning, towards four o’clock, I signed my name in the column of the most recent bets. Here are the three wagers which interested me: Friday, March 26. 8.50 A.M. at 38° 11´ N. and 16° 11´ E.