The captain rang for full speed, and the decks began to strain as the engine increased its labor.  “Get your passengers out and stand by the boats,” he ordered.  “Take it easy and don’t alarm the women.  Have them dress warmly, and don’t allow any crowding by the men.  Mr. Tomlinson, you hold the steerage gang in check.  Take your revolver with you.”  He turned to his silent friend, in whose presence he seemed to feel a cheering sympathy, “I knew it would come sooner or later, Murray,” he said.  “But—­magnificent mummies!  To touch on a clear night with the sea like glass!” He sighed dolefully.  “It’ll be tough on my missus.”

O’Neil laid a hand upon his shoulder.  “It wasn’t your fault, and there will be room in the last boat for you.  Understand?” Brennan hesitated, and the other continued, roughly:  “No nonsense, now!  Don’t make a damned fool of yourself by sticking to the bridge.  Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Now what do you want me to do?”

“Keep those dear passengers quiet.  I’ll run for Halibut Bay, where there’s a sandy beach.  If she won’t make it I’ll turn her into the rocks, Tell ’em they won’t wet a foot if they keep their heads.”

“Good!  I’ll be back to see that you behave yourself.”  The speaker laughed lightly and descended to the deck, where he found an incipient panic.  Stewards were pounding on stateroom doors, half-clad men were rushing about aimlessly, pallid faces peered forth from windows, and there was the sound of running feet, of slamming doors, of shrill, hysterical voices.

O’Neil saw a waiter thumping lustily upon a door and heard him shout, hoarsely: 

“Everybody out!  The ship is sinking!” As he turned away Murray seized him roughly by the arm and thrusting his face close to the other’s, said harshly: 

“If you yell again like that I’ll toss you overboard.”

“God help us, we’re going—­”

O’Neil shook the fellow until his teeth rattled; his own countenance, ordinarily so quiet, was blazing.

“There’s no danger.  Act like a man and don’t start a stampede.”

The steward pulled himself together and answered in a calmer tone: 

“Very well, sir.  I—­I’m sorry, sir.”

Murray O’Neil was known to most of the passengers, for his name had gone up and down the coast, and there were few places from San Francisco to Nome where his word did not carry weight.  As he went among his fellow-travelers now, smiling, self-contained, unruffled, his presence had its effect.  Women ceased their shrilling, men stopped their senseless questions and listened to his directions with some comprehension.  In a short time the passengers were marshaled upon the upper deck where the life-boats hung between their davits.  Each little craft was in charge of its allotted crew, the electric lights continued to burn brightly, and the panic gradually wore itself out.  Meanwhile the ship was running a desperate