Brinsmade at my right was struggling with a tinder which refused to light.
“Have a briquet,” said a voice.
“Thanks.”
The next moment the steel struck sparks and an odor of burning tobacco filled the air. Slight as had been the light it provoked remonstrances and down the deck the plaint of a woman was heard.
“I don’t see why they allow such a thing as that!”
“No lights!”
“Put it out!”
“Good many persons seem unduly excited about submarines,” said the voice of our neighbor, high-pitched, pleasing, if not resonant.
“Well—there’s always a risk.”
“Hardly. Germany doesn’t want us in the war.”