“If she hits us and we begin to sink, don’t wait for the ship to go over,” Mr. Linton said. “Half the boats on the _Lusitania_ were death-traps. Let us all jump in and keep together if we can; we would have more chance of being picked up, and less of being taken down in the suction as she sank. Can you swim, Father?”—to the priest. “I can. But it’s years since I tried, and I don’t know would I keep afloat at all,” said the old man, with unimpaired cheerfulness. “Let you take your own course, and not trouble about me. I’m too old to try jumping, and there’ll be some poor souls I could maybe help. And we’re not beaten yet.” He gave a quick laugh, his grey head well up. “We’re running away, but it’s a good fight we’re putting up, all the same: something to see, after forty years in a New York slum!” “I believe he likes it!” said Wally, under his breath. But the old man caught the words. “Like it! I used to dream of adventures when I was a boy, and it was all the sea—clean winds and waves, and ships that were always magic to me. And it ended in a slum: forty years of it, doing my work in the midst of filth and wretchedness. Well, every man has his work, and mine lay there. And now, at the end, this! I always knew ’twas luck I’d have if I got back to Ireland!” They had raced away in a straight course after the second torpedo, increasing the distance from their pursuer. Now, however, a shot hummed past them, and the captain dared no longer risk a hit—again the ship swerved from side to side, in short, irregular tacks, and the submarine drew nearer once more. On and on—leaping like a hare when the greyhound is behind her: engines throbbing, smoke blackening the sky in her wake. Some of the firemen had staggered up, exhausted, their places taken by volunteers. Ahead, a dim line lay upon the sea: the Irish coast, where lay safety. Would they ever reach it? Then, from the north, came rescue: a patrol-boat, racing down upon them with threatening guns ready to speak in their defence. She came out of a light haze, which, blowing away, revealed her dogged grey shape, with the white water churning and parting at her bow. Presently one of her guns spoke, and a shell buried itself in the sea not far from the submarine. “So long, Brother Boche!” said an officer; and suddenly, as if in answer, the submarine disappeared, submerging to the safety of the underworld. The mail-boat ceased to zigzag, running a straight course until near the destroyer, as a child runs to a protector. The tension relaxed. Voices broke out in quick clamour: and then cheer after cheer came from the pent-up passengers, redoubling as the captain’s face showed over the railings of the bridge. The captain grinned, saluted, and looked at his watch all at once: the danger was over, and now the pressing business of his ordinary life reasserted itself—the landing in time at Kingstown Pier of His Majesty’s mails.