The crowd rushed to look at the boots. They were held up for inspection. Frank Winchester no sooner turned her eyes upon them than she rushed forward, recognized the coat and waistcoat, and stood aghast.
“It’s Paul!”
Adele did not move, she seemed turned to stone.
Her eyes were fixed, looking straight ahead, trying to pierce the shadowy deep, the boundless expanse. The ocean seemed enormous, terrible, and, oh, so cold, heartless, consuming! “What! There? Lost!”
But she was quiet only for an instant, then seizing any loose articles she could find threw them overboard, and with strong emotion invited others to do the same. “Anything that will float—will float! It may reach them; it may, it must!” and the passengers followed her example.
More life preservers, several deck stools and steamer chairs then followed overboard before the enraged boatswain could interfere to stop their useless efforts.
“Don’t you see we’re b’arin’ round?” growled the old salt. “The boats’ll pick ’em up. There’s no sea on now.”
“I truly hope so,” breathed Adele.
“They’ve got plenty of floats already,” said the sailor.
“How do you know?” demanded Miss Winchester, nettled at the fellow’s brusque manner.