The talk of the smoking-room did not interest him tonight.  His efforts to become a part of it were forced.  A jazzy concert of piano and string music in the social hall annoyed him, and a little later he watched the dancing with such grimness that someone remarked about it.  He saw Rossland whirling round the floor with a handsome, young blonde in his arms.  The girl was looking up into his eyes, smiling, and her cheek lay unashamed against his shoulder, while Rossland’s face rested against her fluffy hair when they mingled closely with the other dancers.  Alan turned away, an unpleasant thought of Rossland’s association with Mary Standish in his mind.  He strolled down into the steerage.  The Thlinkit people had shut themselves in with a curtain of blankets, and from the stillness he judged they were asleep.  The evening passed slowly for him after that, until at last he went to his cabin and tried to interest himself in a book.  It was something he had anticipated reading, but after a little he wondered if the writing was stupid, or if it was himself.  The thrill he had always experienced with this particular writer was missing.  There was no inspiration.  The words were dead.  Even the tobacco in his pipe seemed to lack something, and he changed it for a cigar—­and chose another book.  The result was the same.  His mind refused to function, and there was no comfort in his cigar.

He knew he was fighting against a new thing, even as he subconsciously lied to himself.  And he was obstinately determined to win.  It was a fight between himself and Mary Standish as she had stood against his door.  Mary Standish—­the slim beauty of her—­her courage—­a score of things that had never touched his life before.  He undressed and put on his smoking-gown and slippers, repudiating the honesty of the emotions that were struggling for acknowledgment within him.  He was a bit mad and entirely a fool, he told himself.  But the assurance did him no good.

He went to bed, propped himself up against his pillows, and made another effort to read.  He half-heartedly succeeded.  At ten o’clock music and dancing ceased, and stillness fell over the ship.  After that he found himself becoming more interested in the first book he had started to read.  His old satisfaction slowly returned to him.  He relighted his cigar and enjoyed it.  Distantly he heard the ship’s bells, eleven o’clock, and after that the half-hour and midnight.  The printed pages were growing dim, and drowsily he marked his book, placed it on the table, and yawned.  They must be nearing Cordova.  He could feel the slackened speed of the Nome and the softer throb of her engines.  Probably they had passed Cape St. Elias and were drawing inshore.

And then, sudden and thrilling, came a woman’s scream.  A piercing cry of terror, of agony—­and of something else that froze the blood in his veins as he sprang from his berth.  Twice it came, the second time ending in a moaning wail and a man’s husky shout.  Feet ran swiftly past his window.  He heard another shout and then a voice of command.  He could not distinguish the words, but the ship herself seemed to respond.  There came the sudden smoothness of dead engines, followed by the pounding shock of reverse and the clanging alarm of a bell calling boats’ crews to quarters.