oller, the newest charts of
all nations, with a library of nautical literature describing to the
last detail the harbors, lights, rocks, shoals, and sailing directions
of every coast-line shown on the charts; the tracks of latest storms;
the changes of ocean currents, and the whereabouts of derelicts and
icebergs. A member at Lloyds acquires in time a theoretical knowledge of
the sea seldom exceeded by the men who navigate it.

Another apartment--the Captain's room--is given over to joy and
refreshment, and still another, the antithesis of the last, is the
Intelligence office, where anxious ones inquire for and are told the
latest news of this or that overdue ship.

On the day when the assembled throng of underwriters and brokers had
been thrown into an uproarious panic by the Crier's announcement that
the great _Titan_ was destroyed, and the papers of Europe and America
were issuing extras giving the meager details of the arrival at New York
of one boat-load of her people, this office had been crowded with
weeping women and worrying men, who would ask, and remain to ask again,
for more news. And when it came--a later cablegram,--giving the story of
the wreck and the names of the captain, first officer, boatswain, seven
sailors, and one lady passenger as those of the saved, a feeble old
gentleman had raised his voice in a quavering scream, high above the
sobbing of women, and said:

"My daughter-in-law is safe; but where is my son,--where is my son, and
my grandchild?" Then he had hurried away, but was back again the next
day, and the next. And when, on the tenth day of waiting and watching,
he learned of another boat-load of sailors and children arrived at
Gibraltar, he shook his head, slowly, muttering: "George, George," and
left the room. That night, after telegraphing the consul at Gibraltar of
his coming, he crossed the channel.

In the first tumultuous riot of inquiry, when underwriters had climbed
over desks and each other to hear again of the wreck of the _Titan_,
one--the noisiest of all, a corpulent, hook-nosed man with flashing
black eyes--had broken away from the crowd and made his way to the
Captain's room, where, after a draught of brandy, he had seated himself
heavily, with a groan that came from his soul.

"Father Abraham," he muttered; "this will ruin me."

Others came in, some to drink, some to condole--all, to talk.

"Hard hit, Meyer?" asked one.

"Ten thousand," he answered, gloomily.

"Se