“Keep her steaming full speed ahead,” he said, jerking his head towards the engine-room telegraph.
“Ay, sir,” the man replied.
“Until the water gets to the furnaces,” he added to himself, “and then we’re dead men.”
Luke ran lightly down the iron ladder to the lower bridge, which was deserted. From thence he made his way aft to the quarter-deck. As he passed the saloon staircase he ran against two women; one was dragging the other, or attempting to do so, towards the group of passengers huddled together amidships.
“You go,” the younger woman was saying, “if you want to. I will wait.”
Luke stopped. The elder woman was apparently wild with terror. She had not even stopped to put on a dressing-gown. Her thin grey hair fluttered in the breeze. She was stout and an object of ridicule even with death clutching at her.
“Go on, mother,” said the younger woman, with contempt in her voice.
“Agatha!” cried Luke. “You here?”
“Yes; we came on board at Malta.”