O'Neil shook the fellow until his teeth rattled; his own
countenance, ordinarily so quiet, was blazing.

"There's no danger. Act like a man and don't start a stampede."

The steward pulled himself together and answered in a calmer
tone:

"Very well, sir. I--I'm sorry, sir."

Murray O'Neil was known to most of the passengers, for his name
had gone up and down the coast, and there were few places from
San Francisco to Nome where his word did not carry weight. As he
went among his fellow-travelers now, smiling, self-contained,
unruffled, his presence had its effect. Women ceased their
shrilling, men stopped their senseless questions and listened to
his directions with some comprehension. In a short time the
passengers were marshaled upon the upper deck where the life-
boats hung between their davits. Each little craft was in charge
of its allotted crew, the electric lights continued to burn
brightly, and the panic gradually wore itself out. Meanwhile the
ship was running a desperate race with the sea, striving with
every ounce of steam in her boilers to find a safe berth for her
mutilated body before the inrush of waters drowned her fires.
That the race was close even the dullest understood, for the
Nebraska was settling forward, and plowed into the night head
down, like a thing maddened with pain. She was becoming
unmanageable, too, and O'Neil thought with pity of that little
iron-hearted skipper on the bridge who was fighting her so