The greatest character on board was old Cole. In all my life I have never seen a man his equal in many respects. Medium in size with brawny arms and an over-developed muscular neck, he reminded one of a huge beast, muscles superbly developed and mind untrained. Cole was some forty years of age, and a boaster from the word "Go." At the early age of ten he ran away from his parents in Norway, and secured passage on a sail boat bound for Odessa on the Black Sea. I think him one of the most interesting talkers, from a certain standpoint, I have ever conversed with. At times he would charm me for hours with his tales of adventure by sea and land. I became so intensely interested in this man that at night, when all had retired save the watchman, I would sit with him on deck for hours and hear him spin his tales of the past. Cole had been around the world several times and had visited every continent on the globe. In the heart of India he had served as a lackey to a very rich man; in Australia he herded sheep for two seasons; in Japan he was hostler for an American planter; in South Africa he mined, and in South America, at Buenos Ayres, he worked in the shipyards. Thirty years of his life he had spent in travel. Whiskey and tobacco he craved. Old man Miller was our night watchman. He was a good old fellow, who did his duty and never had much to say. A baker in Baltimore, he became tired of his occupation, and feeling need of a change, he had sought a cattle boat for recreation. The ninth day out a terrible mishap came near ending the life of one of our comrades. On this particular afternoon it was raining and the sea was running high. We were all seated in the engine room, hovering around the steam pipes, endeavoring to dry our clothes and warm our chilled bodies, when a shrill cry was faintly heard from the fore part of the boat. Thinking that perhaps trouble had befallen some one, we rushed in the direction from which the cry seemed to have come. Arriving at the door of the "foc's'le," we peeped in, and there, lying on the floor prostrate and apparently dead, was Cole, with blood streaming from his mouth and nostrils. Over him stood a fearless and well developed young fellow, whose name was Max Goodman, with fist clenched and face badly bruised. When I saw the bloody sight I was dumbfounded, for I feared that Cole would never again see the light of day. Goodman was considered one of the best young college pugilists in the South, and I realized from experience the force of his blows. He was one of our star football players, and we had been on the 'varsity eleven together. Half blinded as he was by passion, I took him by the arm, and led him to the engineer's stateroom, where matters were explained.