His voice came, thin and husky, “We've been struck by another ship in the fog!”
At sea, at night, and that a night of winter chill—and the fog! Such the thought. The fact—ten thousand tons of steel and wood, the product of man's industry, fashioned by his brain, and blood, and bone, crushed and useless, and half a thousand human beings—looking forward to years of happiness—doomed to a terrific struggle with the elements. Strong, courageous, creative man—now a weak, fear-stricken, helpless creature!
“To the boats!” came the cry from above, and it was echoed by hundreds of voices. In those three words were a gleam of hope: they opened a path, but through what and to what would it lead? The other ship, a tramp steamer, which had collided with the Altonia was already sinking, and in a few minutes went down, bow foremost, only a few of the crew having escaped in their own boats.
Quincy had been an athlete in his college days. In time of danger, whether the man be ignorant or educated, one feeling—the instinct of self-preservation—is paramount. Alice and Florence had stood mute, helpless. Quincy put an arm about each and sprang to the narrow doorway. It was blocked by two stout men who fought frantically to gain precedence.
Quincy placed his wife in front of him, and, with the hand thus temporarily freed, he grasped one of the men by the collar and threw him back into the saloon where he was trampled upon by the frenzied passengers.
Regardless of the consequence of his act, Quincy mounted the stairs quickly and gained the deck. The boats were being filled rapidly. He placed his wife and sister in one of them.
Alice cried, “Come, Quincy, there is room here.”
“No, Alice, not yet. The women must go first.”
“I will not go without you.”
“Yes, you will, Alice—and you know why.”