He plunged out at the door on the guards, and as he stood there gasping for a moment he realized the situation. The boat was sinking fast; evidently in striking a snag the craft had sprung a leak. He saw on the deck the frightened passengers huddled together in groups, here and there a man anxiously fastening life-preservers on the women and children of his kindred. Again the leadsman’s cry, “No-o bottom!” floated mournfully over the water, and the frantic panting of the engines seemed redoubled. He saw the captain, cool and collected, at his post; the other officers appeared now and again among the groups of passengers, soothing, reassuring, and doubtless their lies were condoned for the mercy of the intention. As he passed on amongst them all, nowhere did he catch a glimpse of John Grayson. “If I didn’t know the fellow wouldn’t play such a fool trick at such a time, I’d think he was dodging me,” he muttered. The next moment he had forgotten him utterly.
“Deep four!” called the leadsman.
As Royce listened he stood still, holding his breath in suspense.
“Mark three!” called the leadsman, sounding again.
Royce heard the plunging of his heart as distinctly as the echoes of the cry clanging from the shore. But suddenly they were blended with a new refrain,—“A quarter twain!”
He gave a great sigh of relief, and checked it midway to listen anew.
“Mark twain!” called the leadsman, with a new intonation.
There was no longer doubt,—they were in shallow water. A great exclamation of delight rose from the crowd. The very hope was like a rescue,—the relief from the blank despair! Here and there the hysterical sobbings of the women told of the slackening of the tension of suspense.
“Quarter less twain!” cried the leadsman, sounding anew.
The juggler remembered how free he had felt, how safe. The boat, even if her engines could not run her aground, would soon settle in shallow water, and rescue would come with some passing steamer.