He was in bounding spirits. He chattered incessantly about the trip, planned a lecture tour--“Across the Atlantic in Forty Hours”--formed a stock company to manufacture his motor, offered me the London agency at an incredible salary, and built a stately mansion just off Central Park with his own portion of the proceeds. Having babbled himself dry, Hawkins informed me that salt air invariably made him sleepy, and crawled into the cabin for slumber. And he slept. It passed my understanding, but the man had such utter confidence in himself and his unintentional trip that he snored peacefully throughout the night. I didn't. I felt that my last hours in the land of the living should be passed in consciousness, and I spent that terrible time of darkness in more or less prayerful meditation. After ages, the dawn arrived. I lit another cigar, and wriggled wearily to the bow of the boat and scanned the waters. There was a vessel! Far, far away, to be sure, but steaming so that we must cross her path in another fifteen minutes. I tore off my overcoat, scrambled to the little deck, wound one arm about a post, and waved the coat frantically. Nearer and nearer we came to the steamer. More and more I feared that the signal might be unnoticed, or noticed too late. But it wasn't. I have known some happy sights in my time, but I never saw anything that filled me with one-half the joy I felt on realizing that the steamer-people were lowering one of their boats. They were doing it, there was no doubt about the matter. In five minutes we should be near enough to their cutter to swim for it. I dived to the stern to awaken Hawkins. He was already awake. He stood there, tousled and happy, sniffing the crisp air, and he had seen the approaching boat. “Got it ready?” he inquired, placidly. “Got what ready?” “Why, the message,” exclaimed Hawkins, opening his eyes in astonishment. “We'll have to hustle with it, I reckon.” “Hawkins, what new idiocy is this?” I gasped. “Surely we're going to give that steamer a few lines to tell the world about our trip?” Seconds passed, before the full, terrible significance of his words filtered into my brain. “Do you mean to say,” I roared, “that you are not going to swim for that boat?” “Certainly I do mean to say it,” he replied stiffly. “Let me have your fountain pen, Griggs.” I took one glance at the boat. I took another at Hawkins. Then I gripped him about the waist and threw my whole soul into the task of pitching him overboard. Hawkins, as I have said, is heavier than I. He puffed and strained and pulled and hauled at me, swearing like a trooper the while. And neither of us budged an inch. The cutter came nearer, nearer, always nearer. Thirty seconds more and we should shoot by it forever. The thought of losing this chance of rescue almost maddened me.