This it was, I am certain,--the most indescribable of blood-curdling sounds,--that threw me into a panic.

I remembered the life-preservers stored in the cabin, but was met at the door and swept backward by a wild rush of men and women.

What happened in the next few minutes I do not recollect, though I have a clear remembrance of pulling down life-preservers from the overhead racks, while the red-faced man fastened them about the bodies of an hysterical group of women.

This memory is as distinct and sharp as that of any picture I have seen.

It is a picture, and I can see it now,--the jagged edges of the hole in the side of the cabin, through which the grey fog swirled and eddied; the empty upholstered seats, littered with all the evidences of sudden flight, such as packages, hand satchels, umbrellas, and wraps; the stout gentleman who had been reading my essay, encased in cork and canvas, the magazine still in his hand, and asking me with monotonous insistence if I thought there was any danger; the red-faced man, stumping gallantly around on his artificial legs and buckling life-preservers on all comers; and finally, the screaming bedlam of women.
This it was, the screaming of the women, that most tried my nerves.