“Go and see. I will watch in your place.”
Five minutes later my comrade returns, after running over, examining and considering the four pages of messages.
“You are right,” he says. “It is strange. However, nothing has happened to her. She would always have had time to signal S. O. S. That doesn’t take two seconds.”
“That’s true. But all the same, she should have replied to the ships that called her.”
“She was wrong. We shall see to-morrow.”
I go down to dinner. On my chair Jimmino, crouched like a sphinx, is waiting for bits from my meal. Our assembly is not very noisy. We comment upon the end of the day, and the doctor receives placidly the usual pleasantries. The conversation turns listlessly on Turkish affairs. Why is there no animation? The officers who are going to take the watch rise to put on their uniforms for the night. We greet them in the familiar way as they pass out. “A good watch to you, old man! Keep your eyes open!” “Don’t delay us!” “You know I’m taking the Paris express this evening.” “If you see a submarine try not to waken me.” “And then,” I added, “let me know if there is a message from the Gambetta.”
“Why?”
“She has not spoken for nearly twenty-four hours.”
“The deuce!” murmured the assembly. “What has happened to her?”
The game tables are set up, for dominoes, chess, bridge; the smokers light their pipes; the readers open their paper; others stretch out on the cushions. Interpretations are offered concerning the silence of the Gambetta.