breakfasts all had been enjoying—fish and game from Kamchatka, tinned fruits and meats from California, hot rolls and cakes—the steward and cook could only, with great difficulty, provide some rather shaky coffee and the regular “hard bread” (biscuit) of the ship. The storm increased in violence; it was unsafe to venture on deck. The writer’s room-mate, M. Laborne, a genial and cultivated man of the world, who spoke seven languages fluently, sat down, and wrote a last letter to his mother, enclosing it afterwards in a bottle. “It will never reach her,” said poor Laborne, with tears dimming his eyes; “but it is all I can do.” Each tried to comfort the other, and prepare for the worst. “If we are to die, let us die like men,” said Adjutant Wright. “Come down in the engine-room,” another said, “and if we’ve got to die, let’s die decently.” The chief engineer lighted a fire on the iron floor below the boilers, and it was the only part of the vessel which was at all comfortable. Noble-hearted Colonel Bulkley spent his time in cheering the men, and reminding them that the sea has been proved to be an infinitely safer place than the land. No single one on board really expected to survive. Meantime, the gale was expending its rage by tearing every sail to ribbons. Rags and streamers fluttered from the yards; there was not a single piece of canvas intact. The cabins held a wreck of trunks, furniture, and crockery. In one of the cabins several boxes of soap, in bars, had been stored. When the gale commenced to abate, some one ventured into the house on deck, when it was discovered that it was full of soapsuds, which swashed backwards and forwards through the series of rooms. The water had washed and rewashed the bars of soap till they were not thicker than sticks of sealing-wax. [Illustration: OUR “PATENT SMOKE-STACK.”]