“Don’t you believe it,” declared Jack.  “These Germans may do a little bluffing—­I’d probably try the same thing under similar conditions—­but you mark my words, they’ll accept the terms, all right.”

“The conference is to be resumed some time this afternoon,” said Frank.  “That means that we will hear nothing before morning.”

“It depends,” said Jack.  “If the armistice is signed to-day, we’ll probably get the word immediately; but if it stretches out for a day or two, we probably won’t”

“I guess that’s about the size of it,” Frank admitted.

All during the day excitement aboard the Essex, and all other vessels patrolling the North Sea, for that matter, was at fever heat.  While every man knew that there was little likelihood of receiving news until long after dark, each one nevertheless lived in hopes.

Nevertheless, patrol work was still being done carefully.  It had become an axiom of a British sailor that a German was not to be trusted—­that when he appeared the least dangerous, it was time to watch him more carefully.  Consequently, in spite of the impending armistice, the vigilance of the British fleet was not relaxed.

Six o’clock came, and seven; and still there had been no word from the scene of the armistice conference.  At eight o’clock Frank said: 

“I don’t know what we are sitting up for.  Something must have gone wrong again.  If the armistice had been signed we would know something of it by this time.”

“Hold your horses,” said Jack.  “I’m just as anxious as you are, but there is no use getting excited about it.”

“Well,” said Frank, “if we haven’t heard something by nine o’clock, I’m going to turn in.”

But at nine o’clock no word had been received.

“I know we shall hear nothing to-night,” said Frank, rising, “so I’m going to tumble into my bunk.”

“Help yourself,” said Jack, looking up from a book he was reading.  “I’ll wait a little longer.”

Frank retired to his own cabin and was soon asleep.  At ten o’clock, no word having been received, Jack put down his book and rose.

“Frank may be right,” he told himself.  “At all events, I may as well turn in.  My remaining up won’t alter the facts, whatever they are.”

He undressed, extinguished the light in his cabin and climbed into bed.

Aboard practically every ship in the fleet, almost the same scenes were enacted that night.  Officers and men alike remained up for hours, awaiting possible word that the armistice had been signed.  But at midnight no word had been received, and while the big ships moved about their patrol work, the men slept—­those of them who had no duties to perform at that hour.  Only the officers and members of the crew watch, and the night radio operators, remained awake.

To Jack it seemed that he had just closed his eyes when he was aroused by the sound of the Essex’s signal whistle.  It screeched and screeched.  Jack leaped from his bunk and scrambled into his clothes.