tion of taking up the military or political phases of
that affair. They have been sufficiently dissected
and fought over.
My chief recollection, indeed, is of confusion. It began at Euston where they had no idea whether the boat would leave Holyhead or not. Haggard women wept, and men ran up and down with an anxiety for which the officials had no antidote. A young fellow in the uniform of the naval Aying corps came along and held out an envelope and a bundle of newspapers.
“If you get through, please try to mail these in Ireland," he said to me. "I can't go, and my family's in Dublin. I've heard nothing."
"If the Zeps come to-night," a bystander offered, "nobody'll get through. The train won't budge from London."
But the Zeppelins didn't come, and we left, and in the train the confusion persisted. An army officer shared a compartment with another correspondent and myself. We turned out the lights, rolled ourselves in our overcoats, and tried to sleep. But we couldn't sleep. There was too much noise in the corridors, and a monotonous undertone issued from the other compartments where people, full of misgivings for relatives and friends, discussed the future which they approached with uncertain steps. There were black
