2.58 P. M.—Gottlieb Kirschwasser, [101] ]of Milwaukee, lost his head, (the one he came aboard with), and, screaming, “Heute rot, Morgen tot! Auf wiedersehen!” hurled himself overboard.
3 P.M.—Saved! The Stock Exchange bell struck three, and the maelstrom knocked off for the day. The Lithia’s passengers joyfully returned to one another the keepsakes and farewells, and Kirschwasser was fished out of the drink with a boat-hook and put in the boiler-room to dry.
4 P. M.—We have left Wall Street, and are bowling along toward [102] ]White Rock Point, and kicking up an awful dust.
The drouth has become intolerable, and the sufferings of the passengers are increasing hourly. The deck-planks are curling up, and the oakum is oozing from the seams.
The barometer exploded with a loud pop, and Hennessy Martel, wild-eyed, ran up the main hatch, crying, “Is that George Kessler opening wine?” “No such luck,” gurgled Tom Ginn, who was spraying his throat with Blisterine.