“You skunks!” he blubbered.  “You crazy cowards!  Come back and help!”

A big stoker stopped and caught the boy’s arm.

“You come on!” he gasped.  “The whole thing’ll go in a minute.  She’ll go down by the head!”

He tried to catch the boy up in his arms, but the Red Un struck him on the nose.

“Let me go, you big stiff!” he cried, and kicked himself free.

Not all the men had gone.  They were working like fiends.  It was up to the bulkhead now.  If it held—­if it only held long enough to get the passengers off!

Not an engineer thought of leaving his place, though they knew, better even than the deck officers, how mortally the ship was hurt.  They called to their aid every resource of a business that is nothing but emergencies.  Engines plus wit, plus the grace of God—­and the engines were useless.  Wits, then, plus Providence.  The pumps made no impression on the roaring flood; they lifted floor plates to strengthen the bulkheads and worked until it was death to work longer.  Then, fighting for every foot, the little band retreated to the after stokehole.  Lights were out forward.  The Chief was the last to escape.  He carried an oil lantern, and squeezed through the bulkhead door with a wall of water behind him.

The Red Un cried out, but too late.  The Chief, blinded by his lantern, had stumbled into the pit where a floor plate had been lifted.  When he found his leg was broken he cried to them to go on and leave him, but they got him out somehow and carried him with them as they fought and retreated—­fought and retreated.  He was still the Chief; he lay on the floor propped up against something and directed the fight.  The something he leaned against was the strained body of the Red Un, who held him up and sniffled shamefaced tears.  She was down by the head already and rolling like a dying thing.  When the water came into the after stokehole they carried the Chief into the engine room—­the lights were going there.

There had been no panic on deck.  There were boats enough and the lights gave every one confidence.  It was impossible to see the lights going and believe the ship doomed.  Those who knew felt the list of the decks and hurried with the lowering of the boats; the ones who saw only the lights wished to go back to their cabins for clothing and money.

The woman sat in the Quartermaster’s boat, with her daughter in her arms, and stared at the ship.  The Quartermaster said the engineers were still below and took off his cap.  In her feeble way the woman tried to pray, and found only childish, futile things to say; but in her mind there was a great wonder—­that they, who had once been life each to the other, should part thus, and that now, as ever, the good part was hers!  The girl looked up into her mother’s face.

“The redhaired little boy, mother—­do you think he is safe?”

“First off, likely,” mumbled the Quartermaster grimly.