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S

A U-BOAT CAMOUFLAGED

SAILING PAST SUBMARINES

ATURDAY, AUGUST 21. We are off. Already the towered pile that is lower New York looms diminish

ing astern. Ahead thru the Narrows opens a straight path upon dubious seas. It is only two days since the "Arabic" was sunk in the very waters we are to traverse. True, the "New York" is an American ship. But-who knows?

It has been a quiet sailing. We have no crowded passenger list-106 first class instead of 375 as it would be if the ship were full. There has been no holiday mood on deck or dock. The few brave attempts at jocularity-the straw hat sent skimming over the rail from an impulsive hand, the mighty cabbage, fluttering with American flags, that drops solidly into our embarrassed arms- -savor sadly flat. Too many thoughts of the strange Cyclops fish that may be lurking near the journey's end throw shadows across the coming days. It has been a sober sailing.

Down the harbor past the little anchored steamers waiting their appointed tides. The usual tramps, some in unusual dress. One bears amidships on her side in great capitals the word DANMARK and fore and aft a painted flag-the red St. Andrew's cross on a white ground. Another proclaims her neutral nationality by the word NORGE with the vertically striped tricolor of Norway at either end. Our own freeboard, we know, shouts out our identity with NEW YORK, AMERICAN LINE, and the emblazoned stars and stripes. No German eye at the undersea end of a periscope shall mistake our neutral registry if we can help it. On thru the Narrows, where two low lying destroyers, grim in battle gray, guard our country's neutrality against abuse.

Out upon a quiet sea under a smiling sky. May it be an omen.

SUNDAY, AUGUST 22. A placid day. As usual at this stage of a voyage, we are chiefly interested in our shipmates. We look them over, guess about them, discreetly chat with them with a question mark in our minds, gossip about them. Soon a bit of news pops up. One

BY HAROLD J. HOWLAND

Mr. Howland tells here the story of his voyage to England on the American liner "New York." In London he stopped at Morley's on Trafalgar Square, which was probably under Zeppelin fire in the raid of September 8, the Londoner's first glimpse of war at close quarters, about which so little information has passed the censors

hundred and more cancelled their reservations since the "Arabic" was sunk. In fact more stayed behind than came. Were they the wise ones or we the foolhardy ones? Nous verrons.

A curious thing. Almost every passenger's story one hears begins-or ends with the war. Most of us are going over because of it; a very few in spite of it, but only on urgent business. Sailing in war time recalls the marriage service, "not by any to be enterprized, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly."

The little Canadian girl three steamer chairs away has a fiancé down with fever in a hospital in Havre. She is going over with his father and sister to cheer him up. That other pretty Canadian girl, barely out of school one would say, is on her way to be married to her boy officer in the Dominion forces. He is still in England, but he may go to France any day. He would rather leave a wife behind in England than a sweetheart in Canada.

These mothers with children-babies, toddlers, scamperers-all have husbands at the front. It will be easier to fight-and to wait-with only the Channel between than all the Atlantic. Here is a young surgeon from remote Alberta offering up his skill to the Empire's need.

There are no Teutons among us. There is no reason why they should not sail on an American ship; there is every reason why they should not land at a British port. Not a quarter of us are Americans—and all on business bent. This is no holiday trip.

MONDAY, AUGUST 23. A discovery. Our table steward is a soldier. The fact comes out at breakfast, when the din

ing saloon is empty save for a few of us early birds. As thus:

Steward (respectfully in our left ear): "I've been at the front, sir. In France, sir."

Passenger (interested): "Then what are you doing here?"

S. "Wounded, sir. Discharged 'unfit for further service,' sir."

P. "Where were you wounded, steward?"

S. "In the arm, sir."

P. "I mean in what engagment."
S. "St. Eloi, sir. Last April."
P. "How did it happen, steward?"

S. "I was goin' ahead not thinkin' there was anybody abaht, sir, when up jumps, no further awai than that table, sir, a brute of a big German. 'E cime for me with the b'y'net, sir. I 'ad me own knife-b'y'net, sir-in me right 'and an' tried to catch 'is in me left an' missed it. 'E got me a nawsty one thru the thick o' me upper arm, sir. An' then I got 'im, sir. An' then I knew nothin' till I woke up at the Casino. The 'ospital, sir."

P. "How did you get him?" S. "I daon't loike to think of it, sir. With the b'y'net. Thru the fice, sir." P. "Are you going back, steward?" S. "Not till some o' these other young fellas 'as 'ad their turn, sir. It mikes me fair sick. 'Ere I comes back after all I've suffered and sees these young fellas enjoying themselves. It ain't right, sir. We ought to 'ave conscription, that's what I say. An' mike some o' these young fellas that's 'angin' round 'do their bit.'"

Do all Englishmen who have done their bit feel this way about those that have not? That way lies compulsory service, distasteful to the Anglo-Saxon temper.

TUESDAY. The bedroom steward supplements the announcement that the bath is ready with sensational news. The German Ambassador has been sent home. Congress has been called together. An appropriation for a hundred million pounds-half a billion dollarshas been asked for. Food for the imagination. The usual shock of the cold sea water in the tub is hardly felt this

morning. Shaving is a rather nervous process. Shall we have to "do our bit"?

But a glance at the wireless bulletin steadies the pulse. That is only what the Washington correspondent of the London Times thinks that the Cabinet has decided to do if Germany does not finally render satisfaction for the trespass of her submarines. No need to enlist just yet.

WEDNESDAY. Still a calm sea, but a gray and drizzling sky. There is nothing to report.

THURSDAY. The young folks are arranging a program of deck sports for tomorrow. For the second day no news from America. Is there a censorship in the captain's cabin?

FRIDAY. Still no news. One cannot help wondering. During the morning the steward takes down a life-belt from the rack and lays it handy. Well, one might as well try it on. It

fits.

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Tonight we enter the war zone. Cheerful thought, isn't it? We look the boats over with a curious and calculating eye. It is a novelty to have the life-boats play some other rôle than merely that of obstacles on the boat deck.

As night comes on the watch is busied rigging strange contrivances along the sides. At intervals on either side a spar is thrust out from the ship bearing at the end a big bowl shaped reflector with a cluster of electric light bulbs inside it. They cast a blinding light inboard;

by leaning far over the rail one can see the painted stars and stripes brilliantly luminous in the glare. The white letters of our name, too, stand out unmistakably.

It is, like the ready life-boats, a comforting precaution. But the good ship must look a very harlequin. It is galling to think that an American ship must adopt such sensational billboard methods to protect American men and women and children from lawless attack. But will it protect us after all? One cannot help wishing we had some news.

Toward midnight a fantom cruiser slips out of the dark, steams alongside a while for a little chat with our bridge, and fades away. In the war zone at last.

SATURDAY. Awaken early from a refreshing sleep. But did not the aristocrats in the Conciergerie often sleep well the night before the guillotine? Anyway, not all of us have been so fortunate. The deck chairs, one hears, were very well patronized till nearly dawn.

A day of days. Golden sunshine on a sea that gives a new meaning to the word ultramarine. The mind refuses to grasp the thought of a menacing death hiding beneath that brilliant blue. But

not all minds have been so stoical. The woman in the next chair, sensible, reasonable, self-possest, suffers a bad case of nerves beneath an appearance of quiet calm.

"Several times in the night," she confides, "(I turned out my light at five) I found myself standing in the middle of my cabin floor. The slightest noise brought me out of my berth."

In the offing lies a cruiser, a seaplane sailing and drifting and circling above her. A second cruiser steams by on the other side. We are well within the war

zone and here the Mistress of the Seas has vigilant watchers. But what watcher can be sure to detect the strange death-dealing fish that swims beneath the rippling waves?

The splendid day wears on. Now one ship, now a dozen are in sight. We are in traveled waters now. In the early afternoon another cruiser steams across our bows, drops back alongside and signals us with grotesque gesturing semaphore and parti-colored strings of signal flags. Her message given, she goes away upon her further business. Was it a warning she offered us? They're close-mouthed there upon the bridge.

Between tea and dinner we sight a fleet of fishing boats. More than a score there are, a fleet of painted ships upon a painted ocean. From afar they look a helter skelter group; but as we draw up to them they resolve into a drawn up line, stretching to right and left as we pass thru. They're all gray, too, like cats that roam at night. Each has its net straight out astern, the net floats reaching half way to the next in line. What are the fish they fish for? Are they those men eat or do they eat men themselves?

The night drops down, and on either bow a light gleams out. We sail nar

rower waters now.

SUNDAY. A rattling anchor chain brings us on deck. We ride the waters of a river that divides a city. It rains

and it is bitter cold. This must be England.

Now comes the startling news. Last evening we passed a submarine. They saw it from the bridge. It came up close, looked, dived and disappeared.

Was it the sight of the emblazoned stars and stripes that held their hand? Thank God the voyage is done. On board U. S. M. S. "New York"

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This U-boat, sent out to sow mines off the coast of France, ran into too shallow waters and was captured by the French. The crew prisoners; the submarine itself was hauled ashore and burned by its own petrol

were taken

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The bomb bursts over the German trench with a spreading Struck home! The observer at the periscope makes the other cloud of gas and smoke. The kilties begin to look for results Tommies chuckle at his report of the Boches' discomfiture

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The Allies' munition works are piling up their promise of victory. Here's just one storeroom in an English plant

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A spectacular photograph of the shells in action. These are two of our coast defense guns fired simultaneously in target practise. The camera man had luck as well as skill to snap the projectiles just clear of their smoke puff

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