We have discovered that the man behind the gun in the fumoir bears a striking resemblance to Von Hindenburg, but no one has been found who will tell him so.
There was a track meet this afternoon, and the author of this diary was appointed referee. But the first event, a wheelbarrow race, was so exciting that he feared for his weak heart and resigned in favor of our general. There didn’t seem to be much else to the meet but jujutsu, the sport in which skill is supposed to triumph over brawn. I noticed that a two-hundred-and-thirty-pound man was the winner.
We are in that old zone, and the second table’s dinner hour has been advanced to half past six so that there need be no lights in the dining-room. Also, we are ordered not to smoke, not even to light a match, on deck after dark. The fumoir will be running for the last time, but the portholes in it will all be sealed, meaning that after thirty-five smokers have done their best for a few hours the atmosphere will be intolerable. We can stay on deck smokeless, or we can try to exist in the airless fumoir, or we can go to bed in the dark and wish we were sleepy. And the worst is yet to come.
Wednesday, August 15.
The rules for tonight and tomorrow night provide for the closing of our old friend, the fumoir, at seven o’clock, and that witching hour is on you long before you expect it, for they jump the clock fifteen minutes ahead every time it’s noon or midnight. The ship will not be lit up. The passengers may, if they do their shopping early.
There was another lifeboat “drill” this afternoon. Everyone was required to stand in front of his canoe and await the arrival of Svengali. When that gent appeared, he called the roll. As soon as you said “Here” or “Present,” your part of the “drill” was over. When the time comes I must do my drifting under an alias, as Svengali insists on designating me as Monsieur Gardnierre. But No. 12 is at least honored with two second-class ladies. Many a poor devil on the ship is assigned to a lifeboat that is strictly stag.
The Gentleman from Louisiana today sprang this one:
“You know when I part my hair in the middle I look just like a girl. Well, sir, during the Mardi Gras, two years ago, I put on a page’s costume and parted my hair in the middle. And you know girls under a certain age must go home at nine o’clock in the evening. Well, sir, a policeman accosted me and told me I had to go home. I gave him the bawling out of his life. And maybe you think he wasn’t surprised!”
Maybe I do think so.
The Gentleman strayed to the subject of Patti and wound up with a vocal imitation of that lady. He stopped suddenly when his voice parted in the middle.
We have seen no periscopes, but when I opened my suitcase this morning I met face to face one of those birds that are house pets with inmates of seven-room flats at twenty-five dollars per month. I missed fire with a clothes brush, and before I could aim again he had submerged under a vest. Looks as if the little fellow were destined to go with me to Paris, but when I get him there I’ll get him good.
Thursday, August 16.
Great excitement last night when a small unlighted boat was sighted half a mile or so off our port. Our gunners, who are said to receive a bonus for every effective shot, had the range all figured out when the pesky thing gave us a signal of friendship. It may have been part of the entertainment.
Today we persuaded the Gentleman from Louisiana to part his hair in the middle. The New Orleans policeman is not guilty.
It develops that while first- and second-class passengers were unable to read or smoke after dark, the third-class fumoir is running wide open and the Greeks have their cigarettes, libations and card games, while the idle rich bore one another to death with conversation.
Un Américain aboard is now boasting of the world’s championship as a load carrier. It was too much trouble for him to pay Auguste for each beverage as it was served, so he ran a two days’ charge account. His bill was one hundred and seventy-eight francs, or thirty-five dollars and sixty cents.
“Who got all the drinks?” he asked Auguste.
“You, monsieur,” that gent replied.
“And what do you charge for a highball?”
“One franc, monsieur,” said Auguste.
Which means, if Auguste is to be believed, that one hundred and seventy-eight highballs went down one throat in two days. And the owner of the throat is still alive and well. Also, he says he will hereafter pay as you enter.
As an appetizer for dinner tonight the captain told everybody to remain on deck, fully dressed and armed with a life-belt, this evening, until he gave permission to retire.
We’re all on deck, and in another minute it will be too dark to write.
Tomorrow night, Boche willing, we will be out of the jurisdiction of this Imp of Darkness.
II
I Get to Paris and Encounter Some Strange Sights
Friday, August 17. A French Port.
In obedience to the captain’s orders we remained on deck last night, fully dressed, till our ship was past the danger zone and in harbor. There was a rule against smoking or lighting matches, but none against conversation.
The Gentleman from Louisiana and a young American Field Service candidate
