es and daughters are always pestering professional men to give their
services to charities for nothing, but in cases like the one I have just
cited they take very good care that they do not unloosen their own
purse-strings to help the cause along and equalise the obligation.

However the concert took place, and I, unable to resist the flattering
request to "do something," and not being prohibited from taking part--as
Mr. Lloyd was--made several sketches, just to keep my hand in, and they
were raffled for.

All goes well and smoothly on the voyage until one night you are
awakened by a harsh, grating, shrieking sound. You start from your
slumbers, and for a moment imagine that in reality you are in the
interior of some fearsome ocean monster, who is bellowing either in rage
or fear, for the sound is unique in its wild hideousness, half a screech
and half a wail, aggressive and yet mournful. Your ears have just
recovered from the first shock when they are assaulted by another, and
yet another, at intervals of about a minute. It is the voice of the
siren. Was ever a more inappropriate name bestowed upon the steam
whistle of an Atlantic liner? It conveys to me the news that we are
passing through an Atlantic fog, and I defy anyone, be they in the most
perfect ship, under the safest of commanders, to feel comfortable in
such circumstances. The siren still wails, and like Ulysses and his
companions I feel very much inclined to stuff my ears with wax. Indeed,
peering out of my porthole through the mist, I almost seem to see the
figures of the mythological voyager and his companions carved in ice, no
doubt beguiled by the treacherous music of the siren. These are in
reality our main terrors, the icebergs.

[Illustration: THE AMERICAN PILOT--IDEAL.]

It is a relief when we have left them behind and evaded the clutches of
the demon fog, and the fresh breeze and the glorious sun lend a new
beauty to the sparkling water, showing us in the distance white specks
skimming over the waves like gulls, the first sign that we are
approaching land--the white gleaming wings of the pilot yachts.

[Illustration: THE AMERICAN PILOT--REAL.]

Signals are exchanged, and one of these boats comes nearer and nearer to
us, tacking to perfection. Through our glasses we already seem to see
the stalwart figure of the pilot standing in the stern. On his brow he
wears a storm-defying cap, the badge of the warrior of the waves; the
loose shirt, the top