Then the vessel that was hit amidships rolls a little, and there is a gurgle like that of an enormous, weir:  a mast goes with a sharp report; a man’s figure appears on the taffrail and bounds far into the sea—­it is an experienced hand who wants to escape the down-draught; the hull shudders, grows steady, and then with one lurch the ship swashes down and the bellowing vortex throws up huge spirts of boiling spray.  A few stray swimmers are picked up, but the rest of the company will be seen nevermore.  Fancy those women in that darkened steerage!  Think of it, and then say what should be done to an owner who stints his officers in the matter of lamp-oil; or to a captain who does not use what the owner provides!  The huddled victims wake from confused slumbers; some scream—­some become insane on the instant; the children add their shrill clamour to the mad rout; and the water roars in.  Then the darkness grows thick, and the agonized crowd tear and throttle each other in fierce terror; and then approaches the slowly-coming end.  Oh, how often—­how wearily often—­have such scenes been enacted on the face of this fair world!  And all to save a little lamp-oil!

Yet again—­a great vessel plunges away to sea bearing a precious freight of some one thousand souls.  Perhaps the owners reckon the cargo in the hold as being worth more than the human burden; but of course opinions differ.  The wild rush from one border of the ocean to the other goes on for a few days and nights, and the tremendous structure of steel cleaves the hugest waves as though they were but clouds.  Down below the luxurious passengers live in their fine hotel, and the luckier ones are quite happy and ineffably comfortable.  If a sunny day breaks, then the pallid battalions in the steerage come up to the air, and the ship’s deck is like a long animated street.  A thousand souls, we said?  True!  Now let some quiet observant man of the sailorly sort go round at night and count the boats.  Twelve, and the gig aft makes thirteen!  Allowing a tremendously large average, this set of boats might actually carry six hundred persons; but the six hundred would need to sit very carefully even in smooth water, and a rush might capsize any one boat.

The vast floating hotel spins on at twenty miles an hour—­a speed that might possibly shame some of the railways that run from London suburbs—­and the officers want to save every yard.  No care is omitted; three men are on the bridge at night, there is a starboard look-out, a port look-out, and the quartermaster patrols amidships and sees that the masthead light is all right The officer and the look-out men pass the word every half-hour, and nothing escapes notice.  If some unlucky steerage passenger happens to strike a light forward, he stands a very good chance of being put in irons; and, if there is a patient in the deck-house, the windows must be darkened with thick cloths.  Each officer, on hazy nights, improvises a sort of hood for himself; and he peers forward as