aboard, and three or four hundred deck passengers —­so it was said at the time—­and not very many of them were astir.  The wood being nearly all out of the flat now, Ealer rang to ‘come ahead’ full steam, and the next moment four of the eight boilers exploded with a thunderous crash, and the whole forward third of the boat was hoisted toward the sky!  The main part of the mass, with the chimneys, dropped upon the boat again, a mountain of riddled and chaotic rubbish—­and then, after a little, fire broke out.

Many people were flung to considerable distances, and fell in the river; among these were Mr. Wood and my brother, and the carpenter.  The carpenter was still stretched upon his mattress when he struck the water seventy-five feet from the boat.  Brown, the pilot, and George Black, chief clerk, were never seen or heard of after the explosion.  The barber’s chair, with Captain Klinefelter in it and unhurt, was left with its back overhanging vacancy—­everything forward of it, floor and all, had disappeared; and the stupefied barber, who was also unhurt, stood with one toe projecting over space, still stirring his lather unconsciously, and saying, not a word.

When George Ealer saw the chimneys plunging aloft in front of him, he knew what the matter was; so he muffled his face in the lapels of his coat, and pressed both hands there tightly to keep this protection in its place so that no steam could get to his nose or mouth.  He had ample time to attend to these details while he was going up and returning.  He presently landed on top of the unexploded boilers, forty feet below the former pilot-house, accompanied by his wheel and a rain of other stuff, and enveloped in a cloud of scalding steam.  All of the many who breathed that steam, died; none escaped.  But Ealer breathed none of it.  He made his way to the free air as quickly as he could; and when the steam cleared away he returned and climbed up on the boilers again, and patiently hunted out each and every one of his chessmen and the several joints of his flute.

By this time the fire was beginning to threaten.  Shrieks and groans filled the air.  A great many persons had been scalded, a great many crippled; the explosion had driven an iron crowbar through one man’s body—­I think they said he was a priest.  He did not die at once, and his sufferings were very dreadful.  A young French naval cadet, of fifteen, son of a French admiral, was fearfully scalded, but bore his tortures manfully.  Both mates were badly scalded, but they stood to their posts, nevertheless.  They drew the wood-boat aft, and they and the captain fought back the frantic herd of frightened immigrants till the wounded could be brought there and placed in safety first.

When Mr. Wood and Henry fell in the water, they struck out for shore, which was only a few hundred yards away; but Henry presently said he believed he was not hurt (what an unaccountable error!), and therefore would swim back to the boat and help save the wounded.  So they parted, and Henry returned.