The Steamer

As I emerged on deck a Bengal light flared red and dazzling on the
bridge, and I saw some sailors trying to lower a boat from its davits.
Then I knew that the man who had cried "We're sinking!" even if he was
not speaking the exact truth, had at any rate some grounds for his
assertion.

A rather pretty girl, pale with agitation, seized me by the
buttonhole.

"Where are we going?" she questioned earnestly.

"Don't know, madam," I replied; and then a young man dragged her off
by the arm.

"Come this way, Lottie," I heard him say to her, "and keep calm."

I was left staring at the place where the girl's head had been. Then
the head of an old man filled that place. I saw his mouth and all his
features working in frantic endeavor to speak to me, but he could not
articulate. I stepped aside; I could not bear to look at him.

"Carl," I said to myself, "you are undoubtedly somewhat alarmed, but
you are not in such an absolutely azure funk as that old chap. Pull
yourself together."

Of what followed immediately I have no recollection. I knew vaguely
that the ship rolled and had a serious list to starboard, that orders
were being hoarsely shouted from the bridge, that the moon was shining
fitfully, that the sea was black and choppy; I also seemed to catch
the singing of a hymn somewhere on the forward deck. I suppose I knew
that I existed. But that was all. I had no exact knowledge of what I
myself was doing. There was a hiatus in my consciousness of myself.