Smith did not answer. He seemed not to hear. Then he suddenly awoke to his surroundings. He was alive to the occasion, the desperate situation.
"Give way port—ease starboard—swing her out of that swirl—hard on that port oar," he ordered.
Smith looked around for the other boats. The chief mate's was in sight, showing dimly through the haze. She was full of people, crowded, and it was a wonder how she floated with the screaming, panic-stricken passengers, who fought for places in her in spite of Wylie's oaths and entreaties. Smith glared.
"The fools!" he muttered. "If they would only think of something besides their own hides for a second. But they won't. They never do. It's nature, and when the trouble comes they fight like cats."
He steered away from what he saw was trouble. He would not pick up the participants in the scuffle when they overturned the boat. He was full up now, carrying all his boat would hold. She rocked dangerously with every shifting of the crowd, that still trembled and scuffled for more comfort in her. Her gunwales were only a few inches above the sea, and it might come on to blow at any minute.
"Sit down!" he roared to the old man, who would shift and squirm about in the boat, interfering with the stroke oarsman, who jammed his oar into the small of the fellow's back, regardless of the pain it caused.
"Sit down or I'll throw you overboard! Do you hear?"
The old man whimpered and struggled for a more comfortable position; and Smith reached over with the tiller and slammed him heavily across the shoulders, knocking him over.
"If you get up again I'll kill you, you cowardly old nuisance!" he said savagely.