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 fade from the great adventure on which I am embarked. We are steaming steadily out to sea. Whither? It has commenced, that anxious thought for every to-morrow, that is with a war zone traveller even in his dreams. A cold October wind whips full in my face. I shiver and turn up my coat collar. But is it the wind or the pain at my heart? I can no longer see the New York sky line for the tears in my eyes. And I turn in to my stateroom.

There on the white counterpane of my berth stretches a life preserver thoughtfully laid out by my steward. On the wall directly above the washstand, a neatly printed card announces: "The occupant of this room is assigned to Lifeboat 17 on the starboard side." It makes quite definitely clear the circumstances of ocean travel. This is to be no holiday; aunt. One ought at least to know how to wear a life preserver. Before I read my steamer letters, I try mine on. It isn't a "perfect 36." "But they don't come any smaller," the steward says. "You just have to fold them over so," and he ties the strings tight. Will they hold in the highest sea, I wonder.

The signs above the washstands, I think, have been seen by pretty nearly every one before lunch time. When we who are taking the Great Chance together, assemble in the dining-room, each of us has glimpsed the same shadowy figure at the wheel in the pilot house. We all earnestly hope it will be the captain who will take us across the Atlantic. But we