Later, while Mrs. Spofford was peering through the glasses, she drew him aside.
“Tell me about the water in the hold,” she said in a low tone. “Is it serious?”
He looked grave. “Very. If you will take a peep over the side of the ship, you'll see how low down she is in the water.”
“My aunt doesn't know the ship is leaking,” she went on, hurriedly. “I want to keep it from her as long as possible.” He nodded his head.
“Mr. Mott figures we'll stay afloat for ten or twelve hours,—maybe longer. I will see to it that you and Mrs. Spofford get into one of the boats in case we—well, just in case, you know. We will be given ample warning, Miss Clinton. Things don't look as hopeless as they did last night.” He pointed toward the land. “It looks like heaven, doesn't it?”
Her face clouded. “But only a very few of us may—” she stopped, shuddering.
“You poor little girl!” he cried brokenly. He steadied himself and went on: “It wouldn't surprise me in the least if every blessed one of us got safely ashore.”
“You do not believe that, Mr. Percival. I can tell by the look in your eyes. I want you to promise me one thing. If we have to take to the boats, you will come with us—”
He drew himself up. “My dear Miss Clinton, there is quite a difference between being a stowaway on an ocean liner and being one in a lifeboat. I have no standing on this ship. I have no right in one of her boats. I am the very last person on board to be considered.”
She looked searchingly into his eyes, her own wide with comprehension. “You mean you will make no effort to leave the ship until every one else is—”