That place they found filled to overflowing with refugees like themselves. The house was creaking and trembling under the terrible force of the water and wind, and Brophey saw that it would be but a little while before it, too, would have to succumb. So he braced himself in a door and waited for the inevitable. It was but a little while till it came. The house went down and all with it except Brophey, who found himself on top of the water in a gurgling and seething mass of timbers, roofs and other debris. He crawled up on one roof only to have another one thrown like a blanket over him. Thus he struggled for two hours in what was an enormous raft of several hundred broken up houses, going before the wind, being churned together in a huge caldron by the waters. Whole roofs and sides of houses were bobbing, striking, sinking, turning over and moving together like chips in a huge whirlpool. Words can not describe that awful scene. In it all Brophey and hundreds of others were struggling for their lives almost all in vain. Dead bodies of women and children who had succumbed to the inevitable in the early part of the storm, and men and women whom the waters had not yet killed, but were playing with like a cat does a mouse before hurling them into the beyond, were carried hither and thither. DODGING TIMBERS IN THE WATER. Thus Brophey struggled, several times giving up and letting himself go down, but rising each time with a determination to fight until the bitter end, although terrible odds were against him. After having been in this mighty whirlpool for almost an hour, dodging huge timbers, crawling on roofs and sides of houses, being sucked under with them, he saw a house standing. With almost a last effort, he struggled and fought his way to a window of the house. There were ready hands to pull him through the window. This haven which saved his life, together with a number of others, belonged to a negro and is situated near Thirty-seventh street. It was filled with negro refugees, and it is, indeed, to their credit that they struggled with such heroism to save Brophey and several others who drifted by. Getting into the house, he threw himself on the floor, more dead than alive, and there remained until after the storm, when he was taken by friends to the Tremont Hotel, where he has become convalescent. One of the interesting features of the story of his terrible struggle is his unintentional rescue of a dog. Early in his mad career in that most awful caldron he ran across a dog. From that time until his rescue it stayed with him, and would not be pushed off, and at last succeeded in crawling into the window after him. He is going to send for the dog, and declares that never while he is living will it want for a rug to sleep on and a bone to eat.