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 4,000 tons, which would be like crossing the Atlantic in a bathtub. I'd rather be drowned than seasick. I think I shall make sure of comfort by a British boat.

And then—the posters in the Strand begin to announce, "Seven ships sunk to-day." Four Dutch boats trying for their home port, are submarined in English waters. The Laconia goes down. The Anchor liner California meets her fate. It's real, I tell you, on this side where they're daily bringing in the survivors. About nine hours in the open boats is the usual experience for the rescued. Do you see the deterring, dampening effect that this might have on one's enthusiasm for departure?

FACING LIFE OR DEATH?

This is the month of March. Oh, wouldn't it be well to wait until the water is warmer? It's a disquieting sensation to wake up in the night and meditate on whether, say, a week or ten days from now, you may find yourself at the bottom of the Atlantic. In this state of low depression, you decide to live a little longer. And so to-morrow you select a little later date for your sailing. Then the arrival of American mail proves that at least one more boat has run the blockade and escaped the submarines. Yours might.

So I take my courage in both hands, and my passport, too, and buy my ticket. When I have done this, a nice, quiet calm possesses me. It is as if I had been a long time dying. Now it is over and