swung clear of the davits.

Carhart was the color of ashes and could hardly articulate. He had edged
up close to the gangway where the boats were to be filled. Twice he had
tried to wedge himself between the First Officer and the rail and twice
had been pushed back--the last time with a swing that landed him against
a pile of steamer chairs.

All this time the fog-horn had kept up its monotonous din, the Costons
flaring at intervals. The stoppage of either would only have added to
the terror now partly allayed by the Captain's encouraging talk, which
was picked up and repeated all over the ship.

The first boat was now ready for passengers.

"This way, madam--you first--" the Captain said to the widow. "You must
go alone with the baby, and I--"

He did not finish the sentence. Something had caught his ear--something
that made him lunge heavily toward the rail, his eyes searching the
gloom, his hand cupped to his ear.

"Hold hard, men!" he cried. "Keep still-all of you!"

[Illustration: Hold hard men ]

Out of the stillness of the night came the moan of a distant fog-horn.
This was followed by a wild cheer from the men at the boat davits. At
the same instant a dim, far-away light cut its way through the black
void, burned for a moment, and disappeared like a dying star.

Another cheer went up. This time the watch on the foretop and the men
astride the nose sent it whirling through the choke and damp with an
added note of joy.

The Captain turned to the widow.

"That's her--that's the _St. Louis!_ I've been hoping for her all day,
and didn't give up until the fog shut in."

"And we can stay here!"

"No--we haven't a moment to lose. Our fires are nearly out now. We've
been in a sinking condition for forty-eight hours. We sprung a leak
where we couldn't get at it, and our pumps are clogged.

"Stand aside, men! All ready, madam! No, you can't manage them
both--give me the boy,--I'll bring him in the last boat."

End of Project Gutenberg's A List To Starboard, by F. Hopkinson Smith

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