The ninth day out a terrible mishap came near ending the life of one of our comrades. On this particular afternoon it was raining and the sea was running high. We were all seated in the engine room, hovering around the steam pipes, endeavoring to dry our clothes and warm our chilled bodies, when a shrill cry was faintly heard from the fore part of the boat. Thinking that perhaps trouble had befallen some one, we rushed in the direction from which the cry seemed to have come. Arriving at the door of the "foc's'le," we peeped in, and there, lying on the floor prostrate and apparently dead, was Cole, with blood streaming from his mouth and nostrils. Over him stood a fearless and well developed young fellow, whose name was Max Goodman, with fist clenched and face badly bruised. When I saw the bloody sight I was dumbfounded, for I feared that Cole would never again see the light of day.
Goodman was considered one of the best young college pugilists in the South, and I realized from experience the force of his blows. He was one of our star football players, and we had been on the 'varsity eleven together. Half blinded as he was by passion, I took him by the arm, and led him to the engineer's stateroom, where matters were explained.
It seems that Cole had attempted Goodman's life with a pitchfork. On finding that he was unable to protect himself against this deadly weapon, Goodman retreated to a corner, where he secured a bucket, which he threw at Cole's head, causing him to drop the fork. Goodman then seizing his opportunity, charged on Cole and hit him squarely between the eyes. From the effects of the blows, poor Cole was confined to the ship's infirmary with a broken jaw and a badly bruised face.
Seventeen days after embarking from America we steamed into the mouth of the Thames, and never was there a happier bunch of American college boys together. When we stepped ashore that most beautiful Sunday afternoon we were no longer cattlemen, but young Americans in Europe to see, hear and learn all we possibly could.
Landing at Alexander dock, about twenty miles below London proper, we made our way rapidly to the nearest station of the elevated railway which runs parallel with the Thames, and boarded the first train going to the Fenchurch Street Station. Engaging two four-wheelers, we were soon driven into the square of the great and lavishly furnished Hotel Cecil, where we registered.
Hubert Collins, a university man who was on this trip, and I left London for Liverpool, where we went aboard the steamship "Oravia," which was to transport us to Lisbon, Portugal.
We glided smoothly out of the harbor and on our way to Portugal, which we so much desired to see, and from which point we could easily make our way across the frontier and into old historic Spain, where Don Quixote made his daring raid upon the windmills.
Before we had been an hour out of port we selected our bunks and were comfortably seated in our new quarters. The first day out we made the acquaintance of most of our fellow passengers, and indeed we found them surprisingly agreeable.
Leaving Liverpool on a Thursday, we made our first stop at La Pallice, the seaport of La Rochelle, a town of about twenty thousand inhabitants. Arriving at eight-thirty in the morning, we boarded a car which conveyed us to La Rochelle, at which place we spent the entire day in sight-seeing. We made our lunch on good French wine and sweet cakes.