To-night this little Spanish jitney steamer is
eleven days from New York and twelve hours—
perhaps—from her home port of Cadiz, just outside of the Strait of Gibraltar. Since we passed
the Azores three days ago we have been steering
a curved course; but for that we should have
reached port already. Approaching the Strait of
Gibraltar is dangerous just now, even for a strictly
neutral ship. Between the Pillars of Hercules
the German mine-laying submarines are busy, and
the currents carry the mines out into the broad
Atlantic. For that reason we steered north; and
just after sunset this evening a flashing light announced our approach to the Spanish Coast. We
have been hugging the three-mile limit ever since,
and across the severe shore, which we can make
out in the beams of a new moon, comes the distant
gleam of town lights. The ship’s rumors, which
1 A REPORTER AT ARMAGEDDON
always break out on the last night of these wartime journeys, have been especially prevalent and
startling this evening. One has it that we shall
be stopped by a French cruiser early to-morrow
morning and searched for German subjects. It
is said also ...