“February 14th. —­Schooner Harry Randolph dismasted on the way home from Newfoundland; Asa Musie, married, 32, Main Street, City, lost overboard.

“February 23d. —­Schooner Gilbert Hope; went astray in dory, Robert Beavon, 29, married, native of Pubnico, Nova Scotia.”

But his wife was in the hall.  They heard a low cry, as though a little animal had been hit.  It was stifled at once, and a girl staggered out of the hall.  She had been hoping against hope for months, because some who have gone adrift in dories have been miraculously picked up by deep-sea sailing-ships.  Now she had her certainty, and Harvey could see the policeman on the sidewalk hailing a hack for her.  “It’s fifty cents to the depot”—­the driver began, but the policeman held up his hand—­“but I’m goin’ there anyway.  Jump right in.  Look at here, Al; you don’t pull me next time my lamps ain’t lit.  See?”

The side-door closed on the patch of bright sunshine, and Harvey’s eyes turned again to the reader and his endless list.

“April 19th. —­Schooner Mamie Douglas lost on the Banks with all hands.

“Edward Canton, 43, master, married, City.

“D.  Hawkins, alias Williams, 34, married, Shelbourne, Nova Scotia.

“G.  W. Clay, coloured, 28, married, City.”

And so on, and so on.  Great lumps were rising in Harvey’s throat, and his stomach reminded him of the day when he fell from the liner.

“May 10th. —­Schooner ‘We’re Here’ [the blood tingled all over him] Otto Svendson, 20, single, City, lost overboard.”

Once more a low, tearing cry from somewhere at the back of the hall.

“She shouldn’t ha’ come.  She shouldn’t ha’ come,” said Long Jack, with a cluck of pity.

“Don’t scrowge, Harve,” grunted Dan.  Harvey heard that much, but the rest was all darkness spotted with fiery wheels.  Disko leaned forward and spoke to his wife, where she sat with one arm round Mrs. Cheyne, and the other holding down the snatching, catching, ringed hands.

“Lean your head daown—­right daown!” he whispered.  “It’ll go off in a minute.”

“I ca-an’t!  I do-don’t!  Oh, let me—­” Mrs. Cheyne did not at all know what she said.

“You must,” Mrs. Troop repeated.  “Your boy’s jest fainted dead away.  They do that some when they’re gettin’ their growth.  ’Wish to tend to him?  We can git aout this side.  Quite quiet.  You come right along with me.  Psha’, my dear, we’re both women, I guess.  We must tend to aour men-folk.  Come!”

The ‘We’re Heres’ promptly went through the crowd as a body-guard, and it was a very white and shaken Harvey that they propped up on a bench in an anteroom.

“Favours his ma,” was Mrs. Troop’s ouly comment, as the mother bent over her boy.

“How d’you suppose he could ever stand it?” she cried indignantly to Cheyne, who had said nothing at all.  “It was horrible—­horrible!  We shouldn’t have come.  It’s wrong and wicked!  It—­it isn’t right!  Why—­why couldn’t they put these things in the papers, where they belong?  Are you better, darling?”