"Every likelihood," he said.
At that moment the relieved gang came up. They were changed. Not the brave hopeful men we had seen yesterday. They were disheartened. Indeed, we read despair in many faces.
One big burly fellow lighted a pipe. He gave a puff or two. "No use pumping this darned ship," he said. "She's doomed."
And as if to corroborate this awful fact a voice sang out:
"Seven feet o' water in the hold!"
This announcement seemed to demoralise the sailors. One burst out crying. Another cursed and swore. Others ran in a flurried way about the ship. For ten minutes or so all was confusion. And then a stentorian voice rose above the din.
"All hands to the boats!" It was the captain's. And immediately every man came scrambling from the pumps, and I felt my hand taken in an iron grasp.
"We're going to abandon the ship. We're going to take to the boats. Come down to your cabin and gather all you value. Be quick about it," said the doctor, "there isn't much time to spare. They're going to provision the boats before they lower them, so you can pack up all you want."
He spoke roughly. He pushed me along in front of him. I was so dumfounded that I could not resent it. Down in the cabin he looked at me. His stern eye dared me to faint.
I heard Sylvia say, "Can we take that little box?"