Again to work; another woman, she is sobbing, and cries out piteously, "Oh! don't shake me; be careful, don't hurt me!" Poor creature! she is very near her confinement; down she falls from the hands of the men who are holding her into the arms of the boatmen, and rolls over into the bottom of the boat. Some of the husbands on board throw blankets down to the poor half-dressed women in the boat; the blankets are rolled into bundles that the wind may not carry them away. Some of the women in the boat are crying aloud for their children; a passenger rushes frantically to the gangway, cries, "Here, here!" and thrusts a big bundle into the hands of one of the sailors, who supposes it to be merely a blanket which the man intends for his wife in the boat. "Here, Bill, catch!" the sailor shouts and throws the bundle to a boatman who is standing up in the boat; he just succeeds in catching it, as it is in the point of falling into the sea, and is thunderstruck to hear a baby's cry proceed from it, while there is a shriek from a woman, "My child! my child!" as she springs forward, and snatches it from him, which tells, indeed, of the greatness of the danger through which the poor little thing has passed. In spite of all the boatmen's care and labour the boat every now and then lurches with a tremendous thump against the ship's side, and would be stove in but for the massive cork fenders which surround her, and still she is leaping and tossing about; now high as the main chains of the ship, now low in the trough of a big sea, the hollow of which is so deep that it leaves but little water between the bottom of the boat and the sands; but with all eager haste the men work on, and at last, after many hair-breadth escapes, and some heavy falls, thirty women and children are got on board, and the boat is declared to be full. The boatmen cast off the hawsers from her bow and stern, and begin to haul in hard upon the cable. They draw the boat up to the anchor with much difficulty, for as the range of cable gets shorter, the boat jerks and pitches a great deal in the rush of the short waves, and in the swing of the tide. The anchor is up at last; the sails are hoisted; the boat feels her helm, gathers way swiftly, and shoots clear of the ship. A faint and half-hearted cheer greets them as they pass astern of the vessel; the remaining passengers watch them with wistful and somewhat anxious glances as they plunge on through sea and foam. Away the boat bounds before the fierce gale--on through the flying surf and boiling sea--on, although the waves leap over her and fill her with their spray.