Of Major Archie Butt, a favorite with his fellow tourists; of Charles M. Hayes, president of the Grand Trunk; of Benjamin Guggenheim and of William T. Stead, no one seems to know whether they tarried too long in their staterooms or whether they forebore to approach the fast filling boats, none of them was in the throng which, weary hours afterward, reached the Carpathia. Simultaneously on all the upper decks of the ship the ropes creaked with the lowering of the boats. As they reached the water, those in the boats saw what those on the decks could not see--that the Titanic was listing rapidly to starboard, and that her stern was rising at a portentous angle. A rush of steerage men toward the boats was checked by officers with revolvers in hand. Some of the boats, crowded too full to give rowers a chance, drifted for a time. None had provisions or water; there was lack of covering from the icy air, and the only lights were the still undimmed arcs and incandescents of the settling ship, save for one of the first boats. There a steward, who explained to the passengers that he had been shipwrecked twice before, appeared carrying three oranges and a green light. That green light, many of the survivors say, was to the shipwrecked hundreds as the pillar of fire by night. Long after the ship had disappeared, and while confusing false lights danced about the boats, the green lantern kept them together on the course which led them to the Carpathia. ECHOING SPLASH OF CHILLY WATERS. As the end of the Titanic became manifestly but a matter of moments, the oarsmen pulled their boats away, and the chilling waters began to echo splash after splash as the passengers and sailors in life preservers leaped over and started swimming away to escape the expected suction. Only the hardiest of constitutions could endure for more than a few moments such a numbing bath. The first vigorous strokes gave way to the heart-breaking cries of “Help! Help!” and stiffened forms were seen floating, the faces relaxed in death. Revolver shots were heard in the ship’s last moments. The first report spread among the boats was that Captain Smith had ended his life with a bullet. Then it was said that a mate had shot a steward who tried to push his way upon a boat against orders. None of these tales has been verified, and many of the crew say the captain, without a preserver, leaped in at the last and went down, refusing a cook’s offered aid. The last of the boats, a collapsible, was launched too late to get away, and was overturned by the ship’s sinking. Some of those in it--all, say some witnesses--found safety on a raft or were picked up by lifeboats. In the Marconi tower, almost to the last, the loud click of the sending instrument was heard over the waters. Who was receiving the message, those in the boats did not know, and they would least of all have supposed that a Mediterranean ship in the distant South Atlantic track would be their rescuer.