is the only man on the ship who thinks the idea practicable. "Of what
use to lower a small boat," say the sailors, "in Georgian Bay?"

The man above must descend on that little line. He doesn't want to do
that. He goes to the other boat, and makes a feeble experiment of
hoisting and lowering, by means of both davits, the man to sit in the
yawl. "I couldn't do it!" he vows, and recrosses.

"What'll I do when I get down there?" he mutters. "How'll I get loose?"

He must make his descent knife in hand.

"I can't do it!" he says, and gets out his knife. It is a large
fur-handled hunting knife--like Corkey in its style.

Corkey peers down on deck. The wood-choppers are fastening
life-preservers about their bodies. Whether they be crying or
shouting, cannot be told.

He sees human forms hurrying past the cabin window, and there is
reflected the yellow, wooden, ribby thing which he knows to be a
life-preserver.

It is a cheering thing in such a moment. "I wish I had one," he says,
but he holds to the rope of his boat.

There is no crew, in the proper sense of the word. Not an officer or
man on board feels a responsibility for the lives of the passengers.
As at a country summer resort, each person must wait on himself.