It was the boatswain’s mate, the hero who had filled all the passengers with his own coolness and courage, who had been Vandover’s inspiration.  Some strange reaction seemed to have seized upon him.  Of a sudden he rushed to the rail, the starboard rail that was heaved so high out of the water, stood upon it for a moment, and then with a great shout jumped over the side.  His folly was as infectious as his courage.  Four more men followed him, three going over all at the same time, and a fourth a little later, hanging an instant upon the outside of the rail, then dropping down feet first, disappearing with a great splash that made itself heard in the great silence that had suddenly fallen upon the throng.

Every one had seen what had happened; a thrill of fear and apprehension passed over them all like a cold breath.  They were silent, struck dumb, feeling the presence of death close by.

Suddenly a long flash of yellow upon the bridge made a momentary streak on the darkness, and there was the report of a gun.  A minute later it was fired again, and alternating with it the Mazatlan’s whistle began to roar, like a hoarse shout for help.  Between these sounds could be heard the renewed clamour upon the decks, the shouting, the screaming, and the rush of many feet; the little children clung about the knees of their mothers, shrieking and wailing monotonously, “Oh, ma_ma_—­oh, ma_ma_!” rolling their eyes fearfully behind them.

But many of the children, even some of the older passengers, were absolutely silent, dazed, stupefied with terror and excitement, their eyes vague and distended, looking slowly about them, scarcely daring to move a limb.

Meanwhile the Mazatlan was settling forward, and already the spray was beginning to fly over the decks.  Little by little the terror increased; people threw themselves down upon the deck, rising up again, their arms raised to heaven, praying aloud, screaming the same things over and over again.  The Salvationists tried to raise another hymn, but the sound of their voices was drowned out by the tumult, the roaring of the whistle, the barking of the minute guns, the straining and snapping of the cordage, and the sound of waves drawing closer and closer.  Prone upon the deck, his arms still clasped about his black satchel, the little Jew of the plush cap went into some kind of fit, his eyes rolled back, his teeth grinding upon each other.  Vandover turned from him in disgust.  Then he looked around and above him, drawing a long breath, saying aloud to himself: 

“It looks as though it were the end—­well!”

All at once Vandover knew that the water had reached the boilers; there came a noise of hissing:  deafening, stunning; white billows of steam poured up over the deck.