In the dull light from the upper decks, I looked into his slanting face--his eyes all whites and his lips moving convulsively. He shivered with fright, but in addition to that he was freezing in the thin cotton shirt that composed his entire upper covering. He worked feverishly at the oar to warm himself. "Get away from her. My Gawd, get away from her," he kept repeating. "When the water hits her hot boilers she'll blow up the whole ocean and there's just tons and tons of shrapnel in her hold." His excitement spread to other members of the crew in our boat. The ship's baker, designated by his pantry headgear of white linen, became a competing alarmist and a white fireman, whose blasphemy was nothing short of profound, added to the confusion by cursing every one. It was the tension of the minute--it was the give way of overwrought nerves--it was bedlam and nightmare. I sought to establish some authority in our boat which was about to break out into full mutiny. I made my way to the stern. There, huddled up in a great overcoat and almost muffled in a ship's life-preserver, I came upon an old white-haired man and I remembered him. He was a sea-captain of the old sailing days. He had been a second cabin passenger with whom I had talked before. Earlier in the year he had sailed out of Nova Scotia with a cargo of codfish. His schooner, the _Secret_, had broken in two in mid-ocean, but he and his crew had been picked up by a tramp and taken back to New York. From there he had sailed on another ship bound for Europe, but this ship, a Holland-American Liner, the _Ryndam_, had never reached the other side. In mid-Atlantic her captain had lost courage over the U-boat threats. He had turned the ship about and returned to America. Thus, the _Laconia_ represented the third unsuccessful attempt of this grey-haired mariner to get back to his home in England. His name was Captain Dear. "Our boat's rudder is gone, but we can stear with an oar," he said, in a weak-quavering voice--the thin high-pitched treble of age. "I will take charge, if you want me to, but my voice is gone. I can tell you what to do, but you will have to shout the orders. They won't listen to me." There was only one way to get the attention of the crew, and that was by an overpowering blast of profanity. I called to my assistance every ear-splitting, soul-sizzling oath that I could think of. I recited the lurid litany of the army mule skinner to his gentle charges and embellished it with excerpts from the remarks of a Chicago taxi chauffeur while he changed tires on the road with the temperature ten below. It proved to be an effective combination, this brim-stoned oration of mine, because it was rewarded by silence. "Is there a ship's officer in this boat?" I shouted. There was no answer. "Is there a sailor or a seaman on board?" I inquired, and again there was silence from our group of passengers, firemen, stokers and deck swabs.