Old Mr. King put up a hasty hand, “Not till you have on yours, Phronsie.”
“No nonsense!” roared the sailor at him, dragging out the life-preserver to fling it over the handsome white head.
“I’ll get mine in a minute,” cried Phronsie, fastening old Mrs. Benson’s to her trembling figure.
The rushing of feet, the babel of hoarse cries, the awful roar, and the stifling smoke made it well-nigh impossible for them to see and to hear each other. Phronsie knew that the sailor was securing a life-preserver around her; and then, above all the awful confusion, she heard a voice.
“Joel!” she cried.
“I’ll take her,” cried Joel, “and the other one. Do you look out, Jim, for the old gentleman. To the boats, my man, to the boats!”
He gathered Phronsie up, and old Mrs. Benson too, the sailor picking up Mr. King; and never any of them could tell how, but presently they were in the wild confusion of the hurrying throngs, and crowded in together at the side of the ship, where they were lowering the boats.
And here Joel leaped away.
“Stay where you are,” he commanded them; drawing his revolver as he sprang to the captain’s side, who single-handed was trying to keep the half-crazed crew from leaping into the boat.
“I’ll shoot the first man of you who drops into that boat,” yelled Joel at the crew. In their wild fury to get first at the boats as they were lowered, they were knocking the passengers to right and left in their craze. When they saw him, and knew it was the same man who had worked at their side for nine long hours, they sullenly gave up and backed away.