Dr. Cadman won a reputation for advanced thought, and even in 1901, when he went to Brooklyn, had been widely quoted as a believer in the abolition of creeds. In a hundred years, he has said, "there'll be no denominations and there'll be more Christianity." As a young minister, too, there were traces of pacifism in his make-up; in 1896 he said that to make war with Spain over Cuba would be criminal. In 1908 he criticised Theodore Roosevelt for wanting a large Army and Navy. But with the outbreak of hostilities in Europe he began, together with most of his brothers of the cloth, to see that God was on the side of the Allies and to change his views regarding militarism. To learn what war was actually like he became chaplain of the Twenty-third Regiment of the New York National Guard, and lost fifteen pounds serving on the Mexican border. Regarding war, he said, at about that time:

It is not the worst of evils. The gilded youth of Broadway is typical of a much greater evil. This war is purging the nations. They will be

better for it. It is sweeping away the trivial and frivolous and revealing the deep and serious.

Returning from Texas, Chaplain Cadman remarked that universal military training was "splendid." At one of his Y. M. C. A. conferences he was asked what should be done pending possible war with the Kaiser, whose acts he had already described as those of "a devil incarnate."

"Prepare! Prepare! Prepare!" he boomed.

So great was his fervor that he even forgot his friendliness toward other creeds and his dreams of a universal Church. The Lutheran Church in Germany, he explained, was not "the Bride of Christ," but "the paramour of Kaiserism." After America had entered the struggle he blessed its cause as "that of Christ." Then he added:

If religion means to us what it did to Christ, that is, a cross of blood, then the soldiers and sailors are the most religious men we have among us. Shed blood has always brought man nearest to God. "Greater love has no

man than this, that he lay down his life for his country."

A millionaire friend, Dr. Cadman

went on, had expressed doubt about the wisdom of the war. Asked what he would do if he found a "burglar attacking his wife," this pacifist had replied that he "would try to stop him without hurting him."

"What," demanded the pastor, "can you do with a God-forsaken ass like that?"

'HE doctor recovered his balance in

THE

time. By 1926 he was opposing military service in the schools, and was in that year barred from the Commencement exercises of the New York Military Academy at Cornwall after he had been asked to make an address. So angry did the die-hard militarists become at their former brother-in-arms that one Sunday afternoon they stormed his Y. M. C. A. forum and hissed until the police reserves ejected them. Dr. Cadman's shifting views on militarism have, in fact, constituted one of the few inconsistencies in his career as a publicist. He belongs to that ever-increasing group of clergymen, in New York and elsewhere, who know the sweet uses of publicity, who never say "No" to a reporter, who are always willing to be quoted on the question of the day. Dr. Cadman has, at one time or another, been interviewed on the League of Nations, the greatness of President Coolidge, the potentially equal greatness of Theodore Roosevelt, Jr., the adoption of Mary Spas by the once prominent Edward W. Browning, and the experimental murder of Leopold and Loeb. He was among the patriots who rushed to the defense of George Washington when Rupert Hughes published the first of his volumes on the Father of his Country. In this case Dr. Cadman evolved a somewhat novel method of literary criticism, saying:

Above all, Washington was sane, sober, and self-controlled. One look at his face and then at that of Mr. Hughes should convince any one that the pup looked at the King-and not like him.

Within recent months Dr. Cadman has been given another opportunity for service. He has become Chairman of the "Religious Book of the Month Club." Dr. Cadman prides himself on his standing as a "liberal-conservative," but there are some things that he cannot ac(Continued on page 71)

T

HE sea wind riffled the water

and broke up the white-gold patches of reflected light into shimmering streaks. The scattered fleet seemed to lie in a restless moonlit sky, the anchor chains barnacled with stars.

All but one vessel.

The Falcon, long and low, stood out as whitely against the liquid darkness as a mediæval painting of the Holy Grail. Batteries of strong lights scoured the decks on which two hundred men were working late and hard, and the illumination ran off to spread in a glowing film over the waters around the ship.

At the stern two hose-lines trailed off into the burnished water, and a diver, whiter in his rubber suit than a naked man, stood clumsy and hideous on a platform slung out over the rail by a crane. He was going below, seventeen fathoms under that bright surface, where lay the gashed and flooded carcass of the Submarine S-4.

The two hose-lines led down to her. One had been made fast two hours earlier, at one o'clock, and was now pumping sweet, living air into the fetid forward torpedo compartment. It was this diver's purpose to attach the second air hose.

One would have thought that men were being saved from death, that these measures were parts of a rescue operation.

Indeed, they might have been but for one fact:

The six men who had survived the submarine's quick plunge to sea-bottom happened to be dead, and not all the air covering the earth nor all the divers in all the navies could bring them back to life.

This was midnight of Wednesday, December 21, and they had been dead for hours if not for days.

By COURTENAY TERRETT

MR.

R. TERRETT was one of the correspondents who went to Provincetown to see the Navy rescue six living men trapped in the torpedo-room of the sunken submarine S-4. The effort quickly degenerated into a plain job of salvage. The story Mr. Terrett tells of the actual consideration given to salvaging the ship as opposed to saving the lives of its survivors is not pleasant reading.. It may be, as he says, that suitable explanations can be made to Naval Boards of Inquiry and Congressional committees; but his facts are hard facts, and one or two are capable of a sinister interpretation.

bottom with tons of green sea water in her belly. Thirty-four men died then.

Explanations will be offered as to why air was not pumped in to the six living men on Sunday afternoon, when it was pumped in, three days later, to six dead,

men.

There will be technical explanations offered by men anxious to explain, and they may satisfy a Naval Board of Inquiry or a Congressional investigation.

But they will never satisfy those of us who for five maddening days watched a slowly assembling fleet of rescue ships, equipped with the best available apparatus and manned by a thousand experienced men, lying over the sunken submarine and accomplishing nothing toward saving those six known survi

vors.

In retrospect it seems that rescue was never in the Navy's plan, but only the salvage of a fighting machine which cost upwards of $3,000,000 to build and might be reconditioned at an expense less than replacement.

dragging the ocean floor for hours from small boats, and a buoy was put down to mark the spot.

Already the destroyer Sturtevant and the mine-sweeper Lark were at the scene. The Lark had diving equipment aboard, but it was not used that night. Morning found the Bushnell, fitted for divers, the Falcon, bearing the fullest of diving equipment, and the mine-sweeper Mallard at the scene, and displayed a sea far calmer than that of the night before. Yet it was well past noon on Sunday before the first diver went down; for, though ships were watching all through the night, the marking buoy had broken free and the S-4's position was lost.

Again the small boats swept and dragged the sea-bed. Hours passed, and no man knew whether forty men lived below. At length the Coast Guardsmen found the S-4 again. Another buoy was put over to mark the spot. Divers on the Falcon climbed into their awkward dress and slowly descended through the 102 feet of sea.

They found, down in the darkness of seventeen fathoms, the ship resting on an even keel. A deep wound half severed her, slashing through the controlroom below the conning tower, and her deck was a tangle of wires and rails and twisted plates.

The divers plodded around through the mud, exploring the wreck. Thomas Eadie, one of the best of them, tapped a bar against the plates of the forward torpedo compartment and got a muffled answer. He went aloft, slowly, and into the decompression chamber, and came out to announce that men still lived down below.

Other divers went down. They confirmed Eadie. Finally, late, an air-line was run over the Falcon's stern and a diver attached it to the wreck.

It was not run to the compartment where men were known to be alive. It was attached to another part of the ship. Secretary Wilbur says that it was attached to the general air-distributing system. But the men at the scene that night announced that it had been attached to the forward ballast tanks, and explained that its purpose was to push some of the water out of the S-4 and lighten her for raising.

Rear-Admiral Frank Brumby, in command of the fleet, himself wirelessed to Washington:

"Divers now securing salvage air-lines to tanks."

And a few hours later he reported, "Blowing air from Falcon to tanks."

T

HERE was no mention in those mes

sages of sending air to the compartment where men were alive; the word "salvage" is notable, also, as being the Admiral's choice over "rescue."

Simon Lake, the inventor of the evenkeel submarine, says that the operation of putting an air-line into the torpedoroom is no more complex than boring a hole in the hull, even with an ordinary breast drill, and plugging the hose end into it as the drill was withdrawn.

Before the men died they opened the inside valve of the S-C tube, the "listening telescope" rising through the roof to project above the deck. The company which manufactures these tubes says it is "just a plumber's job" to fit a hose to them, requiring no more than five minutes and needing no special fittings. It was apparently not even considered at the time.

Instead, air was pumped into the ballast tanks until after midnight.

Then, when "Whitey" Michaels, a well-known and daring diver, was brought to the surface with a bad attack of the "bends"-air bubbles in the blood system, resulting from too long exposure to great pressure-the Falcon cast off the air-lines and steamed to Boston to place Michaels in a hospital.

The explanation was offered, when it returned in the evening of the next day, that it was the only vessel in the fleet possessing a decompression chamber, and that it was necessary to keep Michaels in this chamber to save his life; further, that the increasing roughness of the sea made diving impossible, anyway.

The officers who bellowed a brief excuse over the ships' sides at reporters who hung about in wave-tossed open fishing boats, angrily refused to speculate upon what the situation would be if the storm should suddenly subside with the Falcon still miles away.

Fortunately for the peace of conscience of the Falcon's officers and Admiral Brumby, the sea did stay rough all day Monday and all day Tuesday.

The rescue fleet lay about, idly, impotently. The submarine S-8 lay anchored above her stricken sister and listened for signals. A few came up,

T was on Tuesday, the day marked by the Admiral's unexplained retreat from the open sea to the harbor's comfort, that the possibility of introducing an air-line by way of the S-C tube was first mentioned,

Until that time the discussion of getting air to the men in the S-4 had centered about introducing oxygen bottles into the torpedo tubes, a process neces

N mid-afternoon Tuesday the report

amazement the Bushnell and the Falcon up-anchor and hurry into the harbor.

They followed the Navy ships into the harbor, and, while junior officers howled angry orders to keep off, the newspaper men called for the Admiral. He came to the rail and identified himself by pointing to the gold braid and leaves on his uniform cap.

about the bottles to make it fit the tubes.

Then, apparently, some one recollected that the S-C tube, or listening device projecting up through the deck from the torpedo-room, might afford an inlet. Fitted with a petcock valve inside, it provided a two-inch pipe through which air might be pumped.

Junior officers were asked-for those in authority did not care to be asked questions - why this had not been thought of while the divers were down Sunday afternoon. They said, defensively, that the process was also one

"Then why did you come in?" he was asked.

There was another angry rumble. "Because I wanted to," he shouted, and stalked into his cabin, out of earshot of other annoying inquiries.

The attitude of hostility toward the press an attitude that this was purely a Navy matter, and that the public had no right to be interested in what was being done to save six men imprisoned at the sea-bottom-was relaxed only once in the first three days of the "rescue."

The exception was Captain Struthers's courteous reception of a boat-load of newspaper men Monday afternoon. He assisted them in boarding the Bushnell, and offered coffee and sandwiches. But what they wanted was information.

They asked what was being done, what was going to be done, what could

time.

A sailor commented in a low voice: "Any dumb plumber could do it in five minutes."

The even easier method of merely boring a hole in the hull and quickly plugging it with the end of an air-line was dismissed as totally unfeasible.

On these two days while the fleet lay idle it was supplemented by the arrival of tugs towing pontoons, by two great derrick lighters from Brooklyn. These devices, necessary to any operation with a view to raising the submarine, had been started long after the news of the S-4's sinking.

The pontoons had not been started until Sunday morning, instead of Saturday evening, and one of them, springing a leak, held half of them back a full day in the slow tow from Brooklyn to Provincetown.

UT all was in readiness when

Wednesday dawned. The bright

sun showed a sea that was smooth and clear. Within the harbor the water scarcely rippled, and outside Long Point the waves were as slight as on any fine summer day. Yet the press boats, hurrying out with the expectation of finding divers busy and rescue operations progressing with feverish haste, found nothing being done. At eleven o'clock no diver had gone over the side.

At one o'clock the newspaper men dis(Continued on page 70)

tion, therefore, "even as your own heart." And heart here does not merely cover the emotional part of man and stop there. It takes in the so-called intellectual and spiritual sides of him also. It means, therefore, to act toward others even as you would with your own heart. And, going still further, it means to think of and feel about others even as you would with your own soul. The entire Golden Rule does not quite cover the whole meaning of "shu," therefore.

But even "shu" did not seem to satisfy the Master, it seems. He was a cautious soul, Confucius. And he knew better than most the temper of the time and the mental peculiarity of his countrymen. Hair-splitting with them was at once a joyous and very serious pastime of life. So the Master added: "Do not do to others what you do not wish

for yourself"-making it as alibi-proof as possible, showing that the negative side of the rule held as well as the positive.

I used to hear many old-fashioned Christian missionaries work themselves into pious eloquence on the shortcoming of Confucius and his teachings over this very passage. Confucius was inferior and inadequate simply because he put the Golden Rule in the negative. All of which seems to show that cautiousness even like that of the Master is not always paid with the golden coin of appreciation. It was not their fault, of course. Putting their trust in Dr. Legge, in their innocence of the meaning of "shu," has its drawbacks.

to the old Lord of the Clan, who was still living then, or to the Premier of the Empire, or to the ex-President of the United States, Mr. Ulysses S. Grant, who visited Japan a few years before that, it wouldn't have amounted to a hill of beans.

But, of course, I had to go and tell it to the one and only person in all the world who was honor bound to make it the outstanding event of my childhood days.

I was not quite ten years old then. So it was some time ago. But I can see it now in all its minute details without shutting my eyes-see it much more vividly than the movie show I saw last night.

It was a beautiful day in late July. But the afternoon was hot. My father was taking his nap. I walked past the polished veranda just outside of the room. I have known many cats in my day, but none which could have stepped softer than I did that afternoon. I knew why I was pussy-footing so gently; father would have known that too even better if only he were awake.

Once out of the rustic gate of our home, I walked as boldly as a homing knight. Before I had covered a couple of hundred steps down the quaint street of Samurai mansions I saw Jiro cross my path. If a stray dog or anything as respectable had crossed my path, nothing would have happened. But Jiro was our neighbor's boy, a year younger than I. I knew he had the habit of talking a lot about things which were none of his business. His case was desperate, because he used to commit crimes like that right along, without knowing he was sinning in the least. Naturally, I couldn't leave him behind. On the kind of odyssey I was launching myself I felt the need of covering my tracks as I went along. So I yelled out to him:

"Come on along, you stepson of a onelegged snail. Can't you move? Seen a little monkey turn into a fish? I'm training mine to do the trick." By little monkey, I meant Jiro, but then I knew he did not have sense enough to guess it.

He followed me like a pup. The Hozu River flowed a couple of miles beyond the old castle of Kameyama, clear as crystal, and always in a thundering frenzy, as if all the gods were racing it to the sea.

As I got to the bank and stripped for a plunge, I saw three men fishing for ayu. I told Jiro to hold my clothes. I had no idea that the little monkey had