Did they “square” the inspector? She only knew the party broke up and melted away, and a few minutes after, a change came over the crowd below. A sudden animation that exploded in yells. Was it triumph? Or was it rage? Or was it pain? Yes, surely some one was crying “Help,” and a woman shrieked, and now a sound like a flood breaking all barriers and deluging the world. The lights went up on a sudden all over the ship, and down below the gates gave way. In an incredibly short time the ship that had seemed so lonely—it was full. And the torrent of humanity that swept in looked so wild-eyed and disheveled, angry, and possessed by evil passion, that Hildegarde turned and fled down the companionway, and hid herself in her cabin. Ah, yes, she wasn’t much of a heroine. It had been the work of a few seconds to turn the dim and silent ship into a howling, flaring pandemonium, hundreds of angry voices clamoring, complaining, threatening, shouting questions, muttering hoarse abuse. “The company”—everybody was blaming the company. Dozens of people tried to force their way into the cabin for five, at the foot of whose authorized list of occupants stood the name of “Miss H. Mar,” and in one of whose berths that intrepid adventurer was sitting in the midst of her possessions, cross-legged like a Turk, staring, listening, wondering what was going to happen when Governor David M. Jones appeared. Was this he? No, only a huge young woman, in a man’s hat and ulster, who growled and muttered unintelligibly—a foreigner, who seemed to be cursing in Dutch. But this other, breathing American fire and biblical brimstone, this must be Mrs. Governor Jones, holding up her skirt, half torn out of its gathers. Would she wreak vengeance for that as well as for graver misfortunes on the Turk in the upper berth? As the night wore on the people sorted themselves. Hildegarde came to distinguish between the interlopers and the women who belonged in here; battered and breathless and worn out, but held together by a common bond of fearsome experience in getting on board, and agreed, besides, in regarding none too benevolently the person who sat up there in the farther top berth, staring with wide eyes at the stories of what the others had suffered, and herself saying never a word, till some one came to the door to ask if Miss Mar was “there all right.” “_I_ don’t know,” said the nearest woman crossly. “Oh, yes, yes,” said the Turk, tumbling out of the top berth. “Is that you, Louis?” Now she knew how sure she had been, and how hugely glad of his coming. But there at the door only the fat purser, who seemed to have gone mad. He stared vacantly at the young lady, pulled off his cap, and polishing his shining crown with a large handkerchief, muttered abstractedly: “Oh—a—_that’s_ all hunky-dory!” and hurried away. As soon as she recovered her breath, Hildegarde caught up her hat and went after him to explain and to inquire.