I. A. R. Wylie

“ The cockney laid his hand on Monkhouse's arm.
“It's too late, guv'ner. You'd best stay where you are. You don't need to mind abart us. We ain't goin' to swamp no one, are we, mates?”
There was no answer. The light flickered—went out—burned up again—and in that last blaze Monkhouse saw a white wall of faces that were all eyes—wide, staring eyes fixed beneath them on what was coming—and beyond that on an unspeakable revelation. No one screamed. The panic was dead. As the Atlantic heeled over a woman called out shrilly, but the cry was instantly choked by the roar of bursting boilers. ”

“ One moment a man's hot cheek would be against his cheek—there would be a groan and a curse and the cheek would be against his knee—a scream of despair and it sank to the bottom of a torrent which knew no mercy. In this inferno of invisible substance Monkhouse kept his feet by virtue of his brute strength. ”

“ But one thing they saw at last—the half-filled boats on the port side, and the instant's paralysis passed. The leaders led the rush, and it was a leader whom Monkhouse flung back so that he rolled down the full length of the deck and vanished like a pebble thrown into a bottomless lake.
“Keep back!” Monkhouse thundered at them. “Don't you see it's too late?”
A choking, savage growl answered him.
“It's not too late for them—curse you!”
“It's too late for them if you swamp them—what's the good of it? Let them get away—they can't save you—you can save them. Isn't that worth while?” ”

“ Had the gloom lifted only for a moment, men and women might have gripped their courage and met the inevitable unflinchingly; but the invisible death bearing down on them from they knew not where left them with nothing but an instinct to follow. Monkhouse alone made no effort to join in the deadly, purposeless rushes. He drew back against the deckhouse, and found himself, as he had hoped, in a clear space. It was there that a steady hand touched him on the arm.
“On the port side—aft. They're lowering a boat. Go round quietly. We can't hope to save many or give the women first show. ”

“ It's each man for himself. Damn you—stand clear, will you?”
She heard the creak of straining pulleys—a scuffle and then a savage oath.
“You infernal coward—there are only five of you—if you don't take this woman I'll call down the whole crowd on to you.”
“If you do—” The voice snapped like a broken string. Far forward a new tumult had broken loose—a medley of shouts scarcely human in their frenzy. Revolver shots followed each other in quick succession and for an instant predominated,
“The steerage,” Monkhouse remarked casually. “They must have forced their way through. ”

“ With a sureness that was half instinct, half knowledge, he threaded his way through the hurrying, struggling packs of men and women, seeming to swerve round with them, in reality steadily keeping to his course. ”

“ The dynamos have gone wrong and we can't last an hour. You'd better take a chance with the boat. Thank God the storm's dying.”
Monkhouse recognized the quiet tones of authority, although the speaker was hidden from him.
“Where's the damage?” he asked.
“Bulkhead. Struck a derelict. Pray Heaven the steerage doesn't get loose. We're trying to keep them quiet, but the poor devils know they're done for and—”
The voice broke off and Monkhouse heard running steps along the deck which had already begun to slope perilously. He bent his head so that a soft, warm, woman's breath touched his face. ”