Yard men, of the British army, of the Irish Con-
stabulary, of Mr. Redmond's Nationalist Volun-
teers. On the boat, however, the old state was
in evidence. We were crowded by the first
refugees from Dublin—men and women with
nerves over-taut who knew of that story of the
gigantic German submarines. Moreover, the
barricades on the water front at Kingstown had seemed to give the rumour rather too much body.
We crept out of the harbour double-shrouded. Canvas light shields were stretched along the sides. The portholes were closely shuttered. Only one entrance, far forward and completely dark, was left open to the lower deck.
There was a dim light in the smoke-room, and we counted the minutes there while the refugees, a trifle hysterical, exchanged experiences.
Suddenly what everybody had feared seemed to spring upon us. The lights snapped out. Through a blackness nearly palpable a cry cut.
"Submarines!"
The thought of panic in this shrouded boat was more oppressive than the sudden night.
"Sit still!"
Then a man spoke wistfully and saved the situation.
"What are you afraid of? It couldn't be any worse than a happy Easter in Dublin."
