unknown sea-station--long
messages in code. Coastal stations are joined in the 'mix-up.' Cape Cod
is offering normal 'traffic' to the American steamer _St. Paul_, as
though there was no word of anything happening within reach of the
radio. It is all very perplexing. Perhaps the Bermuda message was a
hoax; some 'neutral' youth on the coast may have been working an
unofficial outfit, as had been done before. Anon, an intercepted message
comes through. A Hollands steamer sends out '_S.O.S._ . . . _S.O.S._. . .'
but gives no name or position. Then there is silence; nothing working,
but distant mutterings from Arlington.

Throughout the day we swing through calm seas, shying at each crazy
angle of the zigzag in a turn that slows the measured beat of the
engines. Night coming and the haze growing in intensity, we use the
lead--sounding at frequent intervals--and note the lessening depth that
leads us in to the land. At eight, we reach six fathoms--the limit of
American territorial waters. It is with no disguised relief we turn
north and steer a straight course.

Although now less concerned with the possibility of enemy interference,
we have anxiety enough in the navigation of a coastal area in hazy
weather. We reduce speed. The mist has deepened to a vapour that hangs
low in the direction of the shore. House lights glimmer here and there,
but only by the lead are we able to keep our distance. A glow of light
over Atlantic City shews itself mistily through a rift in the haze and
gives an approximation of our latitude, but it is Barnegat's
quick-flashing lighthouse beam that establishes our confidence and
enables us to proceed at better speed. We shew no lights. For all we are
in American waters, we have not forgotten _Gulflight_ and _Nebraskan_
and other international 'situations'; we look for no consideration from
the enemy and preserve a keen look-out. Vessels pass us in the night
bound south with their deck lights ablaze, but we stand on up the coast
with not a glimmer to show our presence. Turning wide out to the
shoal-water off Navesink, we sight the pilot steamer lying to. We switch
on all lights and steer towards her.

It is not often one finds the New York pilots unready, but our sudden
arrival has taken them aback. We have to wait. Daybreak is creeping in
when the yawl comes alongside with our man. He is an old
Swedish-American whom we had long suspected of pro-German leanings, but
the relief and enthusiasm on his