ovelly, had effect upon even the emotion of those women, everywhere
found, who get a morbid enjoyment out of misery.

Nearly all were watching the rescue boat, though a few looked over the
sides of the ship as if they expected to find bodies floating about.
They saw sharks, instead, and a trail of blood, and this sent them away
sickened from the bulwarks. Then they turned their attention again
upon the rescue party. It was impossible not to note what a fine figure
Hungerford made, as he stood erect in the bow, his hand over his eyes,
searching the water. Presently we saw him stop the boat, and something
was drawn in. He signalled the ship. He had found one man--but dead or
alive? The boat was rapidly rowed back to the ship, Hungerford making
efforts for resuscitation. Arrived at the vessel, the body was passed up
to me.

It was that of Stone the quartermaster. I worked to bring back life, but
it was of no avail. A minute after, a man in the yards signalled that he
saw another. It was not a hundred yards away, and was floating near the
surface. It was a strange sight, for the water was a vivid green, and
the man wore garments of white and scarlet, and looked a part of some
strange mosaic: as one has seen astonishing figures set in balls of
solid glass. This figure framed in the sea was Boyd Madras. The boat
was signalled, it drew near, and two men dragged the body in, as a shark
darted forward, just too late, to seize it. The boat drew alongside the
'Fulvia'. I stood at the gangway to receive this castaway. I felt his
wrist and heart. As I did so I chanced to glance up at the passengers,
who were looking at this painful scene from the upper deck. There,
leaning over the railing, stood Mrs. Falchion, her eyes fixed with a
shocking wonder at the drooping, weird figure. Her lips parted, but
at first they made no sound. Then, she suddenly drew herself up with a
shudder. "Horrible! horrible!" she said, and turned away.

I had Boyd Madras taken to an empty cabin next to mine, which I used for
operations, and there Hungerford and myself worked to resuscitate him.
We allowed no one to come near. I had not much hope of bringing life
back, but still we worked with a kind of desperation, for it seemed to
Hungerford and myself that somehow we were responsible to humanity for
him. His heart had been weak, but there had been no organic trouble:
only some functional disorder, which open-air life and freedom from
anxiety might have ov