"It looks like the second officer's boat, all right," said Wylie.
They rowed straight for her as the smoke of the steamer rose in the east. Before they came within a mile, they saw that the steamer would reach them before they could reach the boat. They then rowed slowly, and watched, waiting.
"Something right ahead, sir," called a man forward.
Roberts looked over the side. He saw something floating.
"Starboard, swing her over a little," he said to the chief mate.
Roberts leaned over the side. He was nervous at what he saw. It had the look of something he dreaded. Then the object came drifting along, and he reached for it. Long before he grasped it, he saw it was the form of a man holding to a cork jacket with one hand and the collar of a man's coat with the other.
The old fellow floated high, and Smith's hand was clenched with a death grip in his clothes. His left hand was jammed through the life jacket, and the fingers clutched the straps. His head lay face upward, and his teeth showed bared from his gums.
"Heavens! It's Smith himself!" exclaimed Roberts. He hauled him aboard with the help of a man.
"It's poor Smith, all right," said Wylie sadly. The life jacket told a tale too plainly. Wylie knew what had happened.
"It's just as well he didn't come ashore. He was guilty, all right," said Mr. Roberts. "A man who wrecks a liner and kills hundreds of passengers might just as well stay out here. Shall we leave him?"