As the boat was nearing its pier in the North River a two-funnelled, drab, foreign-looking sea-going steamer was dropping down toward the bay.  The boat turned its nose in toward its slip.  The steamer veered as if to seek midstream, and then yawed, seemed to increase its speed and struck the Coney boat on the side near the stern, cutting into it with a terrifying shock and crash.

While the six hundred passengers on the boat were mostly tumbling about the decks in a shrieking panic the captain was shouting at the steamer that it should not back off and leave the rent exposed for the water to enter.  But the steamer tore its way out like a savage sawfish and cleaved its heartless way, full speed ahead.

The boat began to sink at its stern, but moved slowly toward the slip.  The passengers were a frantic mob, unpleasant to behold.

Blinker held Florence tightly until the boat had righted itself.  She made no sound or sign of fear.  He stood on a camp stool, ripped off the slats above his head and pulled down a number of the life preservers.  He began to buckle one around Florence.  The rotten canvas split and the fraudulent granulated cork came pouring out in a stream.  Florence caught a handful of it and laughed gleefully.

“It looks like breakfast food,” she said.  “Take it off.  They’re no good.”

She unbuckled it and threw it on the deck.  She made Blinker sit down and sat by his side and put her hand in his.  “What’ll you bet we don’t reach the pier all right?” she said and began to hum a song.

And now the captain moved among the passengers and compelled order.  The boat would undoubtedly make her slip, he said, and ordered the women and children to the bow, where they could land first.  The boat, very low in the water at the stern, tried gallantly to make his promise good.

“Florence,” said Blinker, as she held him close by an arm and hand, “I love you.”

“That’s what they all say,” she replied, lightly.

“I am not one of ‘they all,’” he persisted.  “I never knew any one I could love before.  I could pass my life with you and be happy every day.  I am rich.  I can make things all right for you.”

“That’s what they all say,” said the girl again, weaving the words into her little, reckless song.

“Don’t say that again,” said Blinker in a tone that made her look at him in frank surprise.

“Why shouldn’t I say it?” she asked calmly.  “They all do.”

“Who are ’they’?” he asked, jealous for the first time in his existence.

“Why, the fellows I know.”

“Do you know so many?”

“Oh, well, I’m not a wall flower,” she answered with modest complacency.

“Where do you see these—­these men?  At your home?”

“Of course not.  I meet them just as I did you.  Sometimes on the boat, sometimes in the park, sometimes on the street.  I’m a pretty good judge of a man.  I can tell in a minute if a fellow is one who is likely to get fresh.”