Each morning I awake in faint surprise that I am still here in this same seasick world. The daily promenade begins with a tour of inspection to one’s personal lifeboat. Everybody does it. You wish to make sure that it has not sprung a leak over night. Then you lean over the steamship’s rail to look for the great letters four feet high and electrically illuminated after dark, for all prowling undersea German craft to notice that this is the neutral _New Amsterdam_ of the Holland-American line. Submarine warfare has not yet reached its most savage climax. Somebody says with confident courage: “Now that makes us quite safe, don’t you think?” And somebody answers as promptly as expected. “Oh, I’m sure they wouldn’t sink us when they see that sign.” And no one speaks the thought that’s plain in every face: “But Huns make ‘mistakes.’ And remember the _Lusitania_.” We always are remembering the _Lusitania_. I never dress for dinner at night without recalling: And they went down in evening clothes. We play cards. We dance on deck. But never does one completely while away the recurring thought: Death snatched them as suddenly as from this my next play or as from the Turkey Trot or the Maxixe that the band is just beginning. We read our Mr. Britlings but intermittently. The plot in which we find ourselves competes with the best seller. Subconsciously I am always listening for the explosion. If the Germans don’t do it with a submarine, it may be a floating mine that the last storm has lashed loose from its moorings. What is this? Rumour spreads among the steamer chairs. Everybody rises. Little groups gather with lifted glasses. And—it is a piece of driftwood sighted on the wide Atlantic. That thrill walks off in about three times around the deck. But what is that, out there, beyond the steamer’s path? Right over there where the fog is lifting? Surely, yes, that shadowy outline. Don’t you see it? Why, it’s growing larger every minute. I believe it is! Oh, yes, I’m sure they look like that. Wait. Well, if it were, it does seem as if the torpedo would have been here by now. Ah, we shall not be sunk this time after all! Our periscope passes. It is clearly now only a steamship’s funnel against the horizon. Then one day there is an unusual stir of activity on deck. The sailors are stripping the canvas from off the lifeboats. The great crane is hauling the life rafts from out the hold. Oh, what is going to happen? The most nervous passenger wants right away to know. And the truthful answer to her query is, that no one can tell. But we are making ready now for shipwreck. In these days, methodically, like this it is done. It has to be, as you approach the more intense danger zone of a mined coast. You see you never can tell.