Monday, September 24. At Sea.
Our ship’s cargo consists principally of titles, rumors and celebrities. Most of the titles belong to members of the British Commission which is coming over to talk food to Mr. Hoover. But there is also a regular baroness, round whom the young bloods swarm like bees.
The rumors deal with the course of the ship. Some folks say we are going up Iceland way; others that we are headed straight south; a few that we are taking the Kansas City route, and so on. The sun refuses to come out and tell us the truth, but there’s a shore line in sight on our starboard, and Ring Once tells me it’s the east coast of Ireland. That ought to indicate something about our general direction, but I don’t know what. Of the celebrities, most of them are American journalists and other spies.
Tuesday, September 25. At Sea.
Between eight and nine every morning the bath steward, one Peter James, raps on the door and says: “Your bath is ready, sir.” And you have to get up and go and take it for fear of what he’d think of you if you didn’t. But it’s pretty tough on a man who’s just spent a month in France and formed new habits.
I stayed up all night playing bridge. I wanted to be sleepy to-day because I needed a hair cut and the best way to take ’em is unconsciously. The scheme was effective, and I didn’t hear a word the barber said.
The three others in the bridge game were members of the British Food Commission. Britishers, I notice, are much slower at bridge than we are. They think a long while before they make a play; then they make the wrong play. I do the same thing with only half the expenditure of thought and time.
Wednesday, September 26. At Sea.
Captain Finch appeared at breakfast this morning. It was the first time he had honored us. His presence at table, I’m told, indicates that we are out of the danger zone.
On board we have a doctor, a D.D., who intends to lecture in America on the war. He happened to be at our table in the lounge this afternoon. Some one asked him if he had visited the front.