For coolness I think this second case is even more remarkable. We had about as many in our boat as we ought to take when I heard a woman’s voice say, in just as natural a tone of voice as you would ask for another slice of bread and butter, “Won’t you take me next? you know I can’t swim.” When I looked over into the mass of wreckage from which this voice emanated all I could see was a woman’s head, with a piece of wreckage under her chin and with her hair streaming out over other pieces of wreckage. She was so jammed in she couldn’t even get her arms out, and with it all she had a half smile on her face and was placidly chewing gum. The last I saw of her when I helped her off the boat at Queenstown was that she was still chewing that piece of gum, and I shouldn’t be surprised if she had it yet. Of course, we couldn’t leave her, and as there was no possible way that I dared try to get her without going into the water for her, I told her that if she’d keep cool I’d come after her. To my surprise she said it was not at all necessary, just hand her an oar and she’d hang on. That is the last thing in the world I should ever have dared to do, for naturally I thought, in view of the fact that she could not swim, that as soon as I cleared away the wreckage with an oar she’d get rattled and sink. After what she had said I got my huskies to back through the wreckage till my oar would reach to her. Then I placed it as close to her face as I could and she wriggled around and got her two hands on the oar, held fast, and we pulled her through. Then we rowed for the shore. G---- took the for’ard port oar, and somewhere in the shuffle we had picked up a couple of the stokers, and while they weren’t very big men they were red-headed cockneys and they were trumps. Their conversation was something to remember; I shall never forget it. They two rowed the for’ard starboard oar, B---- rowed the after port oar, and the sailor man rowed the after starboard oar. Others helped push on the oars and so we had a good crew. I steered for a lighthouse on the coast, for I didn’t know whether the Marconi operator had had time to send out an S. O. S., or if he had, whether or not it had been picked up. It was a good long row ashore and I knew we could not get there until after dark, and it was much better to land on a shore, however barren, near a lighthouse than to land on that part where there might not be an inhabitant for miles; also I saw the sail of a fisherman between us and the lighthouse, so I had two goals for which to steer. The lighthouse for which we were steering was that on the Head of Old Kinsale. There were already two real lifeboats between us and the shore. We had stayed around and picked up everyone who seemed to be in the most helpless condition. Those we were forced to leave were as safe as if we had overcrowded them into our flimsy craft. The calmness of the sea was the only thing that enabled us to take on so many, with any degree of safety.