There was a cry; they thought him killed--Vandover had seen his head gashed against a sharp angle of iron--but he jumped up with sudden agility, clambering up the slope of the deck with the strength and rapidity of an acrobat.
There had been a great rush to the other side of the ship, a wild scrambling up the steep deck, over skylights and between masts and ventilators.

People clung to anything, to cleats, to steamer chairs, to the brass railings, to the person who stood next to them.

They no longer listened to the protestations of the brave boatswain's mate; that last long roll had terrified them.

The sense of a great catastrophe began to spread and widen all about like the rising of some fearful invisible mist.

"_What_ had happened?
What was to become of them ?" While Vandover clung to the starboard rail, rolling his eyes wildly, trying to control himself again, a young man, a waiter in the dining saloon, rushed up to him from out of the crowd, holding out his hand.
"It's all up!" he shouted.
Vandover grasped his extended palm, shaking hands with him fervently, without knowing why.