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and headed out into the slate-blue, cold sea. The coast behind was bleak and barren, but it was North America. I was considerably scared,- afraid of submarines and afraid of the land fighting which I should eventually get into if I escaped drowning.

"[[strikeout]] Wednesday [[/strikeout]] Thursday Sept 13th. This morning when I awoke we were out of sight of land. The convoy was all together, eight vessels in all, but the little Belgian Relief boat was no longer with us (these had "Belgian Relief" painted in huge letters along the side, and submarines were supposed to let them through, though I believe a few were torpedoed). A converted yacht, the Gloucester, now an auxiliary cruiser, was just ahead of us. We had an interesting lecture in the morning and a farcical boat drill in the afternoon. I find a good deal of interest in observing the different characters on board. There is the English captain with a bulldog face who enjoys so much being lionized by our men; the consumptive one, who has been released from the service to die; the dark-faced moody one who sits brooding all the time; the Red Cross man who wears the swell uniform and has such a horror of submarines; and the little cockney with the gold teeth who serves drinks in the smoking room. (All these, except the taproom steward, I have now forgotten entirely). Guthrie, Price, and Tillman spend most of their time playing California Jack for drinks. I have played three or four times with them, but there are several chess-players on board and I spend most of my leisure at that."