“You know very well. What is the meaning of our turning-round?”
“It means, sir, that the Adamant has eighty-five saloon passengers and nearly 500 intermediate and steerage passengers who are in the most deadly danger. The cotton in the hold is on fire, and they have been fighting it night and day. A conflagration may break out at any moment. It means, then, sir, that the Vulcan is going to stand by the Adamant.”
A wail of anguish burst from the frightened women at the awful fate that might be in store for so many human beings so near to them, and they clung closer to their children and thanked God that no such danger threatened them and those dear to them.
“And dammit, sir,” cried the Congressman, “do you mean to tell us that we have to go against our will—without even being consulted—back to Queenstown?”
“I mean to tell you so, sir.”
“Well, by the gods, that’s an outrage, and I won’t stand it, sir. I must be in New York by the 27th. I won’t stand it, sir.”
“I am very sorry, sir, that anybody should be delayed.”
“Delayed? Hang it all, why don’t you take the people on board and take 'em to New York? I protest against this. I’ll bring a lawsuit against the company, sir.”
“Mr. Vincent,” said the captain sternly, “permit me to remind you that I am captain of this ship. Good afternoon, sir.”
The Congressman departed from the saloon exceeding wroth, breathing dire threats of legal proceedings against the line and the captain personally, but most of the passengers agreed that it would be an inhuman thing to leave the Adamant alone in mid-ocean in such terrible straits.