Again came the voice across the sea. "Why don't you answer?" it said.
I raised my trumpet to my lips. At first I could make no sound, but, controlling my agitation a little, I shouted: "Yes!"
Instantly the woman disappeared, and for ten minutes I saw her no more. During that time I did nothing but stand and look at the steamer, which was moving more slowly than before, for the reason that the wind was dying away. She was now, however, nearly opposite me, and so near that if the wind should cease entirely, conversation might be held without the aid of trumpets. I earnestly hoped this might be the case, for I had now recovered the possession of my senses, and greatly desired to hear the natural voice of that young woman on the steamer.
As soon as she reappeared I made a trial of the power of my voice.
Laying down the trumpet I shouted: "Who are you?"
Back came the answer, clear, high, and perfectly audible: "I am Mary
Phillips."
Mary Phillips! it seemed to me that I remembered the name. I was certainly familiar with the erect attitude, and I fancied I recognized the features of the speaker. But this was all; I could not place her.
Before I could say anything she hailed again: "Don't you remember me?" she cried, "I lived in Forty-second Street."
The middle of a wild and desolate ocean and a voice from Forty-second Street! What manner of conjecture was this? I clasped my head in my hands and tried to think. Suddenly a memory came to me: a wild, surging, raging memory.
"With what person did you live in Forty-second Street?" I yelled across the water.
"Miss Bertha Nugent," she replied.